Perfect Pandemonium
by Angelina Aintithenniel
Summary: The trip to Washington DC was supposed to be an educational stress relief and an attempt to "connect with state officials and American history while learning about the democratic process." So how did it all end up going so terribly wrong? Or Peter tries to survive his school trip to DC turning into a nightmare. Again.
1. This is How the World Ends

Chapter 1: This is How the World Ends

The trip to Washington DC was supposed to be an educational stress relief and an attempt to "connect with state officials and American history while learning about the democratic process." Or at least that's what the promotional email had promised. With just a few weeks left until finals, May had suggested the trip for Peter as a good escape from the rigors of school and his "internship." At first, he had been adamantly against the idea. The one and only time he had been to the capitol city, he had kind of broken a very important and historical landmark to save his friends from a danger he had inadvertently exposed them to. This argument hadn't impressed May in the slightest.

"Honey, you can't keep pushing aside your life for your after-school activities," she had firmly told him over Mexican leftovers one night. "I think you should go to DC. It would be good for you. I don't want you to regret any lost opportunities to be a normal teenager for once."

And that was that. After everything that they had been through together over the past two years, Peter couldn't say no to the woman who just wanted what was best for him. And you know what? His aunt might be right about taking time to enjoy his friends without the responsibilities of being a superhero. So that was how he found himself, just a few short weeks later, on the school bus to the heart of America.

Washington DC in the early summer was hotter than Peter expected. The sun glared down on their small party as they tramped across the National Mall. Sweat crawled down the teen's neck in the humid haze of the mid-morning and soaked into his collar. His skin tingled and something insistently niggled at the back of his mind. He wasn't entirely sure if this was a weird sense of foreboding, the fear of another Washington monument incident, or simply lack of hydration. He tugged at his uncomfortably moist T-shirt at the thought and looked back at the obelisk rising into the sky. The monument was still covered in scaffolding as crews worked to fix the structure he had inadvertently broken not even a year before.

"You saved our lives there," Ned whispered in his ear, "how cool is that?!"

Peter jumped and glared at his best friend, "Ned! Not in public!"

Ned just shrugged and shaded his eyes to peer up at the monument. The boy turned in a large circle, taking in the Smithsonian Castle, the illuminated overhangs of the Native American Museum, the Capitol dome, the spire of the old post office, and finally the various Smithsonian museums lining the grassy Mall.

"This is so cool!" he enthused as he spun around again, faster this time. "Do you think we can go see the dinosaurs in the Natural History Museum? Ooh, ooh, or maybe the Air and Space museum! Or, or, how about the African American museum, I heard that was supposed to be pretty good."

Peter laughed at his friend's excitement, turning in circles with him to take in the DC skyline. His stomach rumbled abruptly, and he turned his attention to the sundry of food trucks lining the streets, "I vote we start there."

"Come on losers," MJ appeared behind Ned almost silently, "Ms. Andrews says there's a Hard Rock Cafe near Ford's Theater, we're stopping there for lunch."

Peter's stomach rumbled again at the mention of food and MJ arched an over-expressive eyebrow at the noise. She pushed past Ned and bumped a not unfriendly shoulder into Peter as she went. Her arms securely cradled a copy of Howard Zinn's _A People's History of the United States_. A bookmark sticking out of the top showed that she was almost two-thirds of the way through.

"Do you have any idea how she does it?" Ned asked.

Peter cocked his head to the side, "does what?"

"All that reading outside of class work." Ned huffed a bit as they nearly jogged to catch up with their group. He paused to wipe sweat from his brow, "it's unnatural."

Several yards ahead of them, Michelle turned to glare out of the corner of one eye, her middle finger stroking the spine of her book before she turned back to her teacher with a stomp of her combat boots.

"Shit, dude. I think she heard you ." Peter laughed at MJ's calculating side-eye.

The two best friends filed into the back of the group just as Ms. Andrews called for everyone to move towards the escalators disappearing into the underground Smithsonian Metro station. Ned and Peter jockeyed for position for several seconds at the top of the moving stairs, before the larger boy pushed himself forward and onto the steps first. Peter tried to step on behind him when a briefcase connected with the back of his knees as a man in a suit pushed past him to hurry onto the escalator. Without so much as an apology or 'excuse me', the man charged down the left side of the stairs, roughly shoving aside students and tourists with a well aimed elbow as he went.

"How rude," Peter's voice was high pitched and indignant and from a third of the way down the elevator, he heard Ned laugh at his reference. With an affectionate smile, Peter finally stepped onto the escalator and held onto the railing as the stairs rode smoothly down. Carefully, he stepped over the grate at the bottom and fumbled in his jean pocket for his SmartTrip Card. He joined one of the lines waiting to enter the station and stood on his tiptoes to catch a glimpse of his class on the other side of the gate, getting on the escalator that wound down to the platform.

"Hey, wait!" he called after the group. Still on tiptoes, he could see Ned's face turn towards him before the escalator carried him down and out of his view.

He drummed his fingers impatiently against his leg as the line steadily moved forward towards the gate. Finally it was his turn and he quickly scanned his card over the reader and then he was pushing his way past tourists and business, scampering down the escalator in pursuit of his class. At the bottom, he desperately looked up and down the platform before spotting Ned's hat disappear into a car just down the way.

"Come on, Peter!" Mr. Jones, one of the chaperones, stuck his head around the door after Ned and called.

Peter sprinted towards him, deftly dodging briefcases, backpacks, and small children as he wound his way through the crowd that had just exited the train. "Sorry, sorry, sorry," he apologized as he went.

"Step back, doors closing," a smooth, feminine voice announced. Peter desperately lunged for the doors, trying to squeeze in before they slid shut. He was too late. Mr. Jones and Ned pressed against the closed doors as the metro train hissed.

"Stay here, Peter. We'll turn around and come back for you!" Mr. Jones yelled through the shut doors. And then the train was pulling forward and zipping into the tunnels with a rush of air.

He stood on the platform for a moment, before whirling to check the arrival board for the next train. The electronic board suspended from a concrete post above him signaled that a blue line train was just arriving but that the next orange line was 12 minutes out. Flashing lights caught the corner of his eye and he whirled around again to see the warning lights on the opposite platform start up. The squeal of brakes set his teeth on edge and a moment later another train arrived with a gust of air that ruffled his hair and baggy t-shirt.

Peter sighed as he stood on the platform before the arriving train. The same smooth, feminine voice cautioned commuters to step back for the doors to open and then people were streaming out of the train in front of him. He was buffeted by a group of private school kids bedecked in plaid and following a large cardboard George Washington head held aloft by an overly peppy teacher. Business men and women shuffled past, either heading to meetings or returning from a late lunch. The echoing _click_ of high heeled shoes against the concrete filled Peter's ears. The cacophony and echoes were overwhelming and he clapped his hands over his ears to try and stifle the noise. An open bench caught his attention and almost without willing them to, his legs lurched towards it. The bench was concrete and not terribly comfortable, but Peter sank onto it gratefully and deposited his backpack between his legs. He dug around his front pocket for his headphones and sighed when he slipped them into his ears and the noise dimmed. Slowly, the platform around him started to clear out.

Peter slumped back into his bench and stared at the arched concrete ceiling, counting the gray squares without any real interest. The back of his head hurt, an insistent drumming that set his entire body on edge. A heated gust of air blew towards him and then he was on the ground, staring up at the same ceiling as it spun drunkenly around him. Ringing assaulted his brain and he scratched desperately at his head to make it stop, wondering where his headphones had gone. His hands came back bloody and Peter jerked upright in shock.

Dust clouded the air around him. Jagged pebbles tore at his sneakers as he tried to stand on wobbly legs. Confusion contorted his face. The platform in front of him was gone, sagging under rubble, concrete, and sparking wires. Red stained the rubble and streaked across the spaces of tile that were still intact. A stroller lay on it's side in front of Peter, covered in blood and dust and twisted beyond repair.

Two people clawed their way out of the rubble towards to front of the platform and staggered to their feet. One lurched towards the escalator, trampling the other one in their desperate struggle to escape. They tripped and stumbled the entire way, hands thrown out in front of them to stop their falls and push them back up. Peter could only stare as the person stepped over a lone leg and finally latched onto the handrail of the escalator. A muffled cracking sound pierced through the ringing in his ears and Peter frantically looked up to see a piece of ceiling coming loose and then fall. It slammed into the escalator with a deafening crash, tearing a large section of it away from the upper floor and pulling it to the ground.

Everything suddenly came in to focus. There was a perfect pandemonium of sound. Peter was screaming, but so was everyone else around him. The sound of disaster and human panic bounced off the curved walls of the station, echoing and multiplying as they went. Everything hurt, his clothes were ripped and stained with blood. He fell back onto his knees, hissing in pain as debris cut into him. What was happening?

A hand latched onto his upper arm and he was pulled roughly to his feet. A woman dressed in a park ranger's uniform shouted something into his face and started dragging him towards the train tunnels and the emergency pathways. Another park ranger stood at the entrance to the right tunnel, beckoning urgently to them. Too stunned to fight back, Peter let himself be pulled along. The two had barely tripped through ten yards when the trashcan at the end of the platform exploded. The park ranger standing next to it was just gone.

The concussive force threw him back, slamming him into a concrete bench. It felt like his body molded around the bench for a moment before it went too far and Peter howled in pain. Something slapped against his torso and he reached down to clutch at it.

Blood, tissue, and bone met his frantic fingers. And, oh god, was that a hand?! He breathed heavily through his nose as the world narrowed around him and his mind shut off. Nothing mattered except getting out of here. Nothing mattered except surviving. He shoved the severed hand off of him and staggered once more to his feet, adrenaline giving him the strength to push through his pain. His head whipped about on his shoulders, trying to take everything in at once.

The upper platform was mostly buried and both of the tunnels on that side were collapsed. He swiveled around to face where the trashcan had been. One of those tunnels was completely blocked by debris. The other was heavily damaged, but had an opening at the top where the emergency tunnel lights shown through. Peter lurched towards the damaged tunnel, feet dragging as he stumbled over the destroyed platform.

The park ranger who had tried to help him before was on her knees in front of him, staring out into the collapsed tunnels. The back of her uniform was torn almost completely off, baring her bloody back to the world. The teenager stopped for a moment to stare at her quivering shoulders. Nothing made sense, but she was hurt and Peter's minimal training and experience was screaming at him to hurry up and get them both out of there. Peter limped his way over to her as fast as his wobbling knees would take him. The closer he got, the more he could hear her sobbing. He tried to block the sound out, tuning his ears to focus on something, anything else. A grating sound filled his ears instead. He focused all of his energy on moving his feet forward. Shuffle, step, stumble, drag. His legs moved as best he could will them to over the uneven ground. The grating sound grew louder the closer he got, punctuated by staccato cracks. He was within ten feet from the ranger when the cracking became too much to bear.

Peter looked up to see a section of wall crumble and roll, almost like a liquid. Great slabs of concreted seemed to hang in midair for a second before crashing forward.

"Watch out!" Peter hurled himself forward as the cracking on the wall overhead gave way to the thunderous cacophony of falling debris. He slammed bodily into the stunned park ranger and hunched over her before raising his arms to protect his head. The slabs crashed into him with sickening force, crushing into his arms and head. The world went gray.

* * *

 **This story is based somewhat off of a childhood fear of mine. I am absolutely terrified of parking garages or metro stations collapsing on top of me. This fear was mostly triggered by 9/11 (considering that I've lived just outside DC for most of my life, I got a front row seat to the terror of waiting to hear from loved ones that day).**

 **Full disclosure, I have no clue how a metro station/tunnel would realistically collapse or the amount of energy required to compromise the structural integrity of the underground stations. I am also too lazy to try and figure it out through Google.**

 **I am also aware that the timeline of this story would put it just after Infinity War, but I started writing this nearly a year ago when I didn't know the timeline, so please excuse that continuity error.**

 **The phrase "a perfect pandemonium" pops up throughout the mid-19th century with most of the references I can find being between the 1840s-1870s. It was used by a soldier of the 1st Tennessee to describe the scene of battle around him directly after the firing of an artillery battery at the Battle of Kennesaw Mountain. The phrase was also used by the New York Times in its 1876 article about the first crossing of the Brooklyn Bridge by master mechanic EF Farrington when he crossed the two finished towers of the bridge on a seat suspended from a traveling wire. This crossing made quite the spectacle and thousands of people turned out to watch him. Given the connection to New York and its use in describing battle, I figured "a perfect pandemonium" would work well for this story. Enjoy**


	2. Atlas Shrugged

Chapter 2: Atlas Shrugged

Pressure squeezed Peter from above. His head hurt and his left ear rung viciously. Almost every inch of his body hurt from the collapse of debris and strain of surviving. Every moment was a very painful reminder that this nightmare wasn't over. Peter gasped involuntarily and coughed, choking on the thick dust in the air. He blinked against his graying vision and felt blood track down his forehead before snaking down his nose. His breaths came a bit faster as he continued to fight his eyes, trying desperately to see what had happened to him. His stomach churned and Peter barely managed to turn his head to the side before he vomited his breakfast burrito. The stench of stomach bile clung unpleasantly to his nostrils.

"Karen," he bit out weakly. It took Peter several moments to realize that it was not his suit clinging to his body but rather his school uniform hanging in tatters on his frame. His friendly AI wasn't there and his webshooters sat in the backpack he had lost back on the bench when the blast went off. With a shaky gulp, the teenager realized that all he had right now was his mind, instincts, and strength.

He lay on the ground for a few moments more before he was finally able to blink open his eyes and take in the world around him. As carefully as his predicament allowed, Peter sat up and craned his head around to see a concrete slab inches from his back, grinding and groaning under the weight of more rubble. He could just hear where the slab was beginning to slip down the pile of debris, dust and pebbles falling in front of it. Frantically, Peter scrambled around for anything to prop it up, take the pressure off the crumbling support. He could barely see anything in the space except vague outlines. There was a horrendous scraping noise and then the slab was slipping down in a shower of dust.

"Ahhhh!" Peter's scream ripped its way out of his throat. He fell back onto his rear, hands raised over his head in protection as he desperately gasped at dust filled air, coughs stealing the oxygen he managed to drag in. For what felt like an eternity, he cowered on the ground in the face of his imminent death.

The realization that he had not been crushed hit Peter like a freight train: all at once and with an unstoppable force. His shaking hands fell limp to his lap as if invisible strings had been cut. He looked back up to where the concrete slab still groaned ominously against its support, lower than before. A disbelieving breathe escaped his tight chest before he was up on his knees again, desperately searching for a way out.

Peter crawled over on hands and knees to where the slab rested. His fingers clawed along the slab and the pile of debris, feeling and assessing as they went. The debris underneath the slab seemed to be crumbling under the pressure and losing stability. He felt along the debris pile to he side, fingers scraping over jagged edges and twisted re-bar as his hands groped frantically. Finally, they stopped on a compact pile of concrete that felt relatively stable. His mind raced, maybe, just maybe he could move the concrete slab over to the more stable pile. But if he got this wrong, it would mean his death. He sat back and listened to the scraping of debris settling and the tinkle of stones crumbling under immense pressure, a constant reminder that his time was running short. Then again, Peter thought, if he did nothing he was dead anyway.

"Alright, come on, you got this," he encouraged himself as he braced his back and shoulder against the slab. He shuffled off of his knees and onto the balls of his feet, squatting awkwardly as he wiggled into a better brace position. With his feet finally set, the boy pressed upwards.

"Come on!" he gasped out. The concrete slab was heavier than he imagined and weighed into his damaged body like a millstone around his neck, threatening to drag him back down. As the slab shifted, Peter could feel debris on top of it shift. He paused for a moment, listening as the debris settled, before starting his slow progress again.

Grinding noise filled his entire space and he yelped as a heavy object connected with the slab on his back. Something wet flowed down onto him from above. Come on Spiderman! Pl-please anyone! I'm down here!

"No!" Peter didn't know if he was screaming at the memory, his rising panic, or the debris that continued to shift and fall above him.

I'm down here! I'm stuck! His words were lost in his throat, tears falling fast as he struggled against the concrete that pinned him. Crushing pain surrounded him as he looked at his reflection in the puddle on the ground. Some hero he turned out to be.

Peter's back screamed at the unholy fire stabbing his lower spine. The muscles in his left arm just above his elbow shook and seized uncontrollably. His neck strained against the weight and his head pounded to the point that it overtook his senses. The boy crashed to his knees, debris cutting through his jeans and scraping his already abused knees. With a herculean effort, he willed his arms to carry the slab forward just a ways farther. It connected with the wall of debris in a shower of dust and a cascade of small stones that clattered around his feet. Every nerve in his body was on fire as he waited for the pain of being crushed.

"Please," he cried between panicked breaths, "please!"

He didn't know who he was begging nor did he really care. Nothing happened. After several steadying breaths, Peter managed to pull himself together long enough to open his scrunched eyes. It was still dark and dust clogged the air, but he could just barely make out where the concrete slab met the more stable debris on his far side.

"Oh my god," a giddy laugh escaped, "it actually worked!"

Peter was in his own private lean-to with the slab that he had moved acting as a roof. As long as nothing shifted too badly, he was at least relatively sheltered. There wasn't enough room to fully sit upright, but the boy couldn't complain as the strength sapped from his body and he slumped down to crouch on the ground.

An elongated groan sounded beside him before the breaths picked up into panicked staccato pants. "Oh my god! Please, god. No no no no no no, please. I don't want to die, please! God no! Freaking hell."

The panting seemed to impossibly pick up speed before they transformed into wet, heaving sobs. Peter jumped at the sound, head whipping around and eyes going wide at the sight of a bloody and dirty park ranger laid out in the space beside him. He vaguely remembered tackling her to the ground before the whole world imploded.

The park ranger moved around weakly on the ground, gasping for breath. Peter stared numbly at her while she slowly dragged her arms around to try and prop herself up. The ranger made a half decent attempt to sit up before her faced scrunched together. She screamed.

Wide eyed and terrified, Peter held his hands out in what he hoped was a placating gesture, "god lady, don't move. Just don't move. I think you're hurt."

He scooted closer to her side and held a hand awkwardly above one shoulder, "please just be okay." She lay on the ground for a while, panting and moaning before Peter's litany of 'you're okay, it's okay' finally broke through her clouded senses.

"WHAT?" the ranger yelled, confusion clear in her voice.

"Are you okay?" Peter called backed, in as loud a voice as his abused senses could handle. His left ear continued to ring painfully at their raised voices.

"You know what they say," the ranger let out a breathy laugh, "better internally injured than dead."

"I'm, er, Peter. Uh Parker. Peter Parker," the teen introduced himself loudly.

The ranger eased herself back onto the ground and took a steadying breath before slightly lifting a trembling hand, "Marie Faust."

Peter took the offered hand and wobbled it up and down uncertainly. The strength in Marie's shoulder seemed to give out halfway through the handshake and Peter carefully draped her limp arm over her stomach. He sat back on his heels to take a better look at his companion, thankful that his eyes had finally adjusted to the dim light in their confined space. Both he and Marie were covered in cement dust, dirt, and pebbles. Peter watched as blood from a head wound trickled down the ranger's temple, pushing the caked gray filth away as it snaked down her face. For a moment, the teenager was reminded of pictures and videos he had seen of the September 11th terror attacks that had rocked his city. Not for the first time, he wondered what living through that day had been like. He wondered what it had been like for this woman who had lived in one of the cities attacked and for a second the question rose to his tongue before being swallowed by a harsh cough. "No," he whispered, this was not to occasion to ask stupid school questions.

The teen sank to the ground next to the injured woman, curling up on his right side. Now that the adrenaline was seeping from his system, Peter became more aware of his pain. His earlier assessment of everything hurting was still accurate, but pinpoints of pain rose above the others. His lower back continued to burn, even while laying down. Peter groaned as the pain throbbed up his spine and into his tense shoulders. He carefully rolled onto his back and was almost immediately rewarded with the fire dimming to a level that was at least manageable. His left arm just above his elbow cried out next and Peter craned his head over to see a piece of metal nearly three inches long sticking out of his upper arm. His head fall back with a dull thud and an unholy throbbing. It hurt to think, it hurt to breathe, it hurt to just lay still. His chest seemed to grow tighter around every breath.

"Great," he murmured hysterically to himself. "That's really great. I have a piece of metal in my arm."

Marie sucked in a labored breath next to him, "kid?"

"I'm good. Totally good," Peter gave a thumbs up with his right hand, scraped fingers curling into his skinned palm with a pull of damaged skin.

For several minutes both he and the ranger lay curled together, trying their best to keep breathing. Peter rubbed his right palm up and down his right leg, relishing in the sting of superficial cuts as his mind tried to find anything else to focus on. His hand rubbed back and forth against the seams of his front jeans pocket. And then Peter remembered his phone.

"Wait!" he jerked upwards. Stars burst in front of his eyes at the sudden movement and his mostly uninjured right hand shot around to cradle where his left hip met his side as he fell back to the ground. Sticky blood and shredded jeans met his fingers and Peter could vaguely feel strands of skin coated with blood through the tattered denim. His mind felt fuzzy and for a few minutes he lay on the ground and floated on the raging river of pain that flowed through him.

"Peter!" Marie screamed. He could hear the wild panic in her voice as desperate tears choked her already unsteady breathing. "Don't leave me alone!"

Peter sucked in a few harsh breaths and turned his head toward the ranger, "my pocket."

Next to him, Marie shifted minutely closer, "WHAT?!"

"In my front left pocket," Peter gasped around the vice in his chest. "My phone."

Marie blinked at him, head lolling gently from side to side. Slowly, ever so slowly it seemed to Peter, her arm reached around to pat at his left side.

"You are way too young for this, kid," the ranger groaned as she stuck her hand down his pants in search of the phone.

The groping hand pushed weakly at his hips and Peter's breath stuttered as he realized that small, sharp things seemed to be embedded in his thigh. Great, more pain, just what he needed. "My aunt would agree with you," Peter quipped quietly.

The phone was extracted quickly and without much more pain. As Marie held it in her hands, Peter was able to see that the case had managed to save it from most of the damage. Spiderweb cracks radiated across the screen, but it was still intact. Marie thumbed at the power button and Peter choked out a relieved breath as the screen harshly lit up their small space.

"What's the-" Marie's voice broke off into a harsh cough that rattled against Peter's ears. She moaned piteously in pain before clearing her throat, "What's the code?

"Hit the red dog in the bottom right corner and then hold it to my ear," Peter instructed.

Marie did as she was told and then strained up onto one elbow to get the phone close enough to Peter's face. The phone stopped inches from Peter's nose and he could clearly see the notification - pooch is screwed - flashing across the app as he was connected to Tony Stark's private line.

Mr. Stark answered on the second ring, "Kid, tell me you're far away from that metro station ogling an Easter Island Head or something."

"Mr. Stark," Peter gasped as steadily as he could, suddenly self-conscious at the way his voice quavered from pain, fear, and the exertion of holding this small world on his shoulders.

"Well, shit," Mr. Stark's curse boomed through the phone. "Sit tight kid, I'm coming."

Marie fell back with a cry, no longer able to hold her broken torso off of the ground. She crashed onto her back and her arm slapped onto the rocky ground. The phone clattered from her lax grip and skittered away, still blaring the sound of Tony Stark's cursing. Abruptly, the sound was cut as the phone hit a rock and went dark.

"Damn it!" Peter cursed.

Marie groaned in response, struggling to breathe as she shook with coughs. The wet sound of the spasms assaulted Peter's one working ear. After the fit subsided, she spat onto the ground next to her head. Peter could smell fresh blood.

"Hey?" he asked weakly. His relatively uninjured arm reached over to find her shoulder. He shook gently. "Hey."

Marie gasped lightly and exhaled slow and purposefully. She didn't respond.

Peter shook her shoulder again, "hey, you have to stay awake," he urged softly. A coughing fit stole the beginning of his next sentence and he struggled to get the air back to speak again. "Help is coming."

The ranger still didn't respond and Peter scooted closer to her, throwing his right arm over her shoulders. He turned his head to stare at the concrete slab providing their only protection and cried. Hot tears spilled from the corner of his eyes and slid towards his ears, wetting the fringe of hair chaotically swept around them. Peter wasn't sure if he was crying from the pain, the uncertainty of their survival, sadness at the thought of never seeing May and his friends again, or the sheer and overwhelming onslaught of emotion that his shock had held at bay. The release that crying brought, however, was welcome and Peter let himself be swept up into quiet hiccups. His mind drifted far away from his small world of dust and concrete and blood; his body followed shortly after.

"Kid?!" a voice called. Peter rolled onto his side, gritting his teeth against his renewed pain. Someone was calling him.

"Peter!" the voice called again. It was deeper and sharper than May's smooth tone. It must be Uncle Ben coming to wake him. Had he fallen asleep on the couch again after staying up too late with Ned?

Peter groaned at the beating pain behind his eyes and felt around him. Gravel and broken tile met his groping fingers and then he touched something solid and human. His eyes flew open and he saw a woman lying next to him in the dim light. His scrambled mind tried to piece together what was happening. There had been an accident, he was hurt. A lot of people were, this woman - Marie - was one of them. God, what had happened?! What was going on?

Peter could hear shifting and he looked up at the concrete slab above him as pebbles and dust rained down. Light begin to filter through at the edges of the slab. He choked on a wet glob in his throat and struggled to cough it out. Blood coated his fingers as he tried to cover his mouth on instinct.

More dust swirled into his space as the slab continued to move. A metal hand appeared beneath the concrete. Peter curled a protective arm around Marie's shoulder and raised himself slightly to cover her head.

"God kid, say something!" And then Iron Man's face was looking at him through the edge of the concrete.

Peter stared at him numbly, arm still protectively curled around Marie's head and shoulders. He blinked at the red and gold face peering at him through the debris and tried to speak. All that would come out of his open mouth, however, was a rasping gasp.

"Peter?" Iron Man reach a hand through, stopping inches from the hand Peter still held over the ranger's head. "Kid?"

The voice was tight and tinged with something Peter couldn't name, but he could not mistake the unspoken command in the question. He tried to clear his throat with a few short coughs that tore at his ribs and lungs.

"You came," he rasped out, dust coating his mouth and throat and making him cough against the grit.

"In the flesh," the faceplate opened to reveal the slightly haggard face of Tony Stark. He crouched into Peter's space carefully, the grinding of debris almost drowning out the small tinkle of stones against his armor. "Look, Peter, I need to get you out of here. I don't know how much longer this is gonna hold."

Peter nodded, head dipping down toward his chest as his brain protested the movement. Tony's faceplate snapped back into place and he reached fully into the space to grab Peter's shoulders. Slowly, he began to inch the boy towards him.

"Wait!" Peter yelled around a violent cough. "Marie first," he finally managed to gasp out.

Tony just shook his head, "let's just worry about getting you out right now."

"No, you can't," Peter frantically protested. "Please, you have to take her first."

"Kid, kid!" Tony tried to hold him steady. His sharp voice cut into the boy's panic, "She's gone, Pete. She's gone. Has been for a little bit."

"No!" Peter cried, shaking his head as hot tears spilled from his eyes again. "She'll be fine. You have to help her."

Tony got a better grip under his right shoulder and kept pulling, "there's nothing we can do."

Peter shook his head again, and again, and again. Denial etched a haunted look into his dirty face. In a daze, he let himself be pulled towards safety.

"Did you ever see that old movie Earthquake?" Tony asked in a parody of Peter's usual references.

Peter nodded slightly, glassy eyes wide as he was helped over the body of the park ranger. From this angle, he could see where her shredded lower legs disappeared under a pile of rubble. His small, panting breaths stuttered for a moment. How had he not seen that before?

Tony kept pulling him forward, despite his hesitation. "It's going to be just like that. Except without the bad special effects."

Peter's trailing left leg dragged over Marie's stomach, upsetting the limp hand that rested there. The boy's cry of pain as his hip was jostled covered the small thunk of her knuckles hitting the ground beside her body.

And then Tony had him in his grasp. He carefully drew him in and sheltered the boy's head against his chest. A metal hand cupped the back of his skull and shifted his face into the glowing chest-plate. Together the two stepped away from the small space. Tony readjusted his hold on Peter, supporting the boy's upper body as they clambered out from the rubble. Peter was amazed at how small the pile seemed considering that it had held him trapped for far too long.

Once they were clear of the debris, Tony scooped Peter fully into his arms. The boy's shoulders and legs were held securely and his head was tipped back to rest on the older man's metal shoulder. "Hold tight," he warned before they took off at a low speed.

The jostling of flight hurt and Peter whimpered in pain. His right hand scrabbled desperately for purchase against Iron Man's chest. The metal of the suit dented slightly under his fingertips.

"Almost there," Tony's voice was tense as they flew past the wrecked escalator and up the flight of stairs leading to the outside world. Peter was surprised to see that nighttime already blanketed the sky. Hadn't it just been lunch?

And then hands were replacing metal limbs and guiding him onto something rigid. Hard plastic clasped his neck and held his lolling head upright as two blocks butted into his ears. Hands groped all over him, running over limbs, palpitating bits that hurt. Something cold rested over his sternum.

"Peter, can you hear me? Are you with us," the blurry face of a middle-aged blonde woman invaded his line of vision.

Catching his breath to respond was almost impossible, but Peter finally managed. "No," he answered honestly and fell into oblivion.

* * *

 **So the research for this chapter drove me up a wall. The most difficult part was trying to decide what type of bomb this was being based off of. I needed something that had enough explosive power to cause structural damage to a reinforced underground concrete building but that would be portable/discrete enough to make it onto a metro platform while also being reliable enough to detonate on time. Originally, I had pictured some of the bombings of The Troubles, but I wasn't sure if I wanted to go with improvised explosives. I also wanted to avoid a suicide bomber given our current political climate in the US.**

 **Figuring out what type of bomb I wanted to use was complicated further by what type of motivation drove the violence. Is this attack supposed to be rooted in sectarian conflict? Should this attack be tied to terrorism and, if so, is it domestic or foreign terrorism? Could this possibly be from a disgruntled former federal employee who wanted to prove that the metro system is not very secure and needs updating? Maybe it was politically driven, a right wing or left wing extremist using the Smithsonian Metro stop as an easy target? Whichever answer I decided on would end up informing the resources available to an individual and what could plausibly be accomplished. For example, a homegrown terrorist (be it domestic or foreign) who is acting as a lone wolf without a support network is more likely to fall back on low order explosives whereas someone from a military, federal, or police background is more likely to have access to high order explosives. Whether or not I chose a high order or low order explosive affects the injury because the first has a supersonic over-pressurized blast wave that can cause fatal damage to the lungs or GI tract and the other is usually a subsonic incendiary that often results in thermal and shrapnel damage.**

 **All of this needed to be roughly decided before I wrote this chapter so that I could more accurately gauge the type of injuries that would have been caused and how the structure/walls would collapse. Anyway, I probably have not accurately represented what an explosion within a DC metro station would look like, but I really don't want to end up on a government watch list (before people get scared about the research I've already done, most of it comes from CDC Explosions and Blast Injuries: A Primer for Clinicians and FEMA's chapter on Explosive Blasts).**

 **A quick note on the cellphone usage. Some of the DC metro stations have been working to roll out wireless phone connection and wifi for their customers. I've been pleasantly surprised to be able to use my phone on the underground platforms over the last year. That said, is it plausible for Peter to have a working phone in a partially collapsed underground structure? Maybe, maybe not. It's not unheard of for phones to still work in collapsed structures. That said, I'm running with the idea because it works for my story and I wanted to keep the conversation with Tony.**

 **Also, for anyone interested, this is also the first self insert I've had in the nearly 7 years I've been writing fanfic. I'm working towards being a park range and figured that if I ever landed myself in a world full of superheroes, I would likely die in some invasion or another within like the first five minutes. I am the worst at keeping myself alive.**

* * *

 **So I should probably also put a note in here not to expect updates this fast ever again. I had already written and published the first two chapters on AO3 and I wanted to get FFN updated with it before I finished chapter 3. I am hoping to have that next chapter out sometime in the next week, but I make no promises.**


	3. But I Have Promises to Keep

Chapter 3: But I Have Promises to Keep

Handing Peter over to emergency personnel was simultaneously the easiest and hardest thing Tony ever thought he would have to do with the kid. While he was grateful that professional and experienced hands were taking over the task, entrusting his protege to their care, however, cemented his utter failure to protect a child. He had promised May, Happy, Pepper, Peter, and himself that he would keep the kid safe. Hindsight, as they say, was 20/20 and left Tony wondering if he ever should have promised something so impossible to begin with.

The man watched in detached horror as Peter was moved to triage and assessed. A makeshift tent had become a staging area for the wounded and Tony could see a line of ambulances caring for patients. The tent had mostly been cleared out by this hour of the early evening and those few who still remained mostly wore green or yellow tags somewhere on their person as they milled about waiting for treatment. Two shuffling firefighters bore a depressingly young boy into the tent and Tony's heart sank to see a black tag hanging off of the kid's ankle. Intellectually, Tony knew that there would be multiple casualties in an explosion like this, but it was another thing to watch the dead laid out in front of him.

"One for medevac!" the shout pierced through Tony's detachment and he whirled to see the blonde doctor holding an IV bag over Peter's still form as he was wheeled towards a waiting helicopter on the Mall. The kid had been intubated in the 10 minutes Tony had looked away.

"FRIDAY, where is that chopper headed?" Tony asked as he watched the rotors flare to life and gain speed.

"According to the emergency frequency, boss, patients needing level 1 trauma care are being diverted to George Washington University Hospital trauma center," the smooth voice of his AI responded.

Peter was loaded and carefully secured and then the helicopter was lifting off. Tony watched it go, every muscle screaming to follow. With a frustrated growl, the superhero turned back to the metro station. He caught a fireman by the shoulder as she hurried towards the station, "where do you need me?"

The stunned firefighter looked up at him with wide eyes and an open mouth. Awe crept into her face as she registered his question, "Chief Hart is heading the recovery efforts, start there."

Tony nodded and moved towards the station. There still might be people that he could help.

It was nearly two hours later that Tony finally found himself in the main parking lot for the George Washington University Hospital. His suit was stowed away in his briefcase and instead he wore the button down, slacks, and tie for the meeting he'd run out of just hours before. He took a moment to compose himself before entering the main doors and walking up to the crowded receptionist's desk. It took him several minutes before he could speak to someone as everyone around him frantically asked after their loved ones. Finally, it was his turn. "Peter Parker, 16, should have been airlifted in a few hours ago."

The receptionist typed away at his computer, brow wrinkled against the noisy environment around him and expression harried. "May I ask your name and relation to the patient?"

Tony removed his sun glasses and glared at the poor man, "Tony Stark, I'm Peter Parker's Power of Attorney. You should have already received the paperwork."

"Give me just a moment," the receptionist squeaked, finally looking up in disbelief at the man in front of him. "May-may I have a valid Photo ID?"

Tony dug his wallet out of his back pocket and incredulously offered his driver's license. The receptionist took it and turned to make a copy, before returning the ID with a shaking hand "Here you are, Mr. Stark. We did already receive the paperwork and I've scanned everything into Mr. Parker's file. If you wouldn't mind following the signs to the surgery waiting room on the first floor, a doctor will meet with you later to discuss Mr. Parker's condition."

The waiting room was already full of people and Tony eyed them for a minute before turning tail and stalking to a break room he had passed. In a small alcove, a table and three chairs sat beside a coffee maker and vending machine. Tony ordered himself a cup of viscous looking black coffee from the dubious machine before settling into one of the chairs. He had a phone call to make and it wasn't going to be fun.

May Parker's contact info had been saved to his personal phone for an occasion such as this - and also to screen calls when he knew his butt was going to get chewed out by an overprotective guardian - but he hoped he would never have to make this call. And even then, he had expected to make the call about Spiderman. Never did he think that he would have to tell her that it was Peter who had been injured needlessly and unthinkably. With a sigh, he pressed the call button and listened as it rung one, two, three times.

"Please tell me you know something about Peter!" May cried into the phone as soon as she picked up. "I couldn't get through to him at all and then I got your text. And God, please just tell me he's okay."

May was already crying and Tony wished he had something more to tell her than, "I got him out, he's alive."

A strangled cry followed by wet sobbing had Tony hastily lowering the volume on the call. "God, thank god," May gasped.

Tony waited a few moments as May pulled herself together on the other line before continuing, "He's in surgery now, but they won't tell me anything else."

May choked a bit on that, but didn't say anything else. Suddenly, noise burst in the background. The chaos of mingling voices and a robotic PA system screamed through the speakers, a tinny quality making them even harsher. May's reply was lost to the background noise.

"Where are you right now?" Tony asked when the PA had finished on the other end.

"I just got the message that my kid has been involved in some sort of terrorist attack, where do you think I am?!" May's exasperated and teary voice screamed through the line. She sighed and cleared her throat, Tony could hear the raw emotion that she was trying to hold back. "I'm at the Amtrak station right now trying to get tickets into DC. They've grounded all air travel into the region."

"Queens Village or Pennsylvania?" Tony asked.

The PA in the background spoke again before May cut back in, "what?"

"Which station?" Tony clarified "Queens Village or Pennsylvania?"

"Penn Station," May responded after a moment.

"Okay, stay where you are. I'm having Happy send over a car," Tony glanced at his watch, it felt like it should be much later than it was. He scrubbed a hand over his tired face as he paced his small room, "I'm not sure how close we can get you, but - listen May - we will get you to Peter, capiche?"

"You better be right about this, Tony," was the only warning he got before May hung up. A few moments later, a text rang through to his line: _Thank you._

Tony sighed and tucked his phone back into his pocket. He sank wearily into one of the chairs around the table and loosened the slim black tie that he had been wearing back when this whole fiasco started. It had felt like so long ago that Peter had hit his panic button. Tony leaned into the hard-backed chair at his abandoned table and focused on the swirl of his coffee against the cream colored paper cup as he tried to fight down his oncoming panic. The sound of the hospital's PA system and the noise of the chaotic emergency response rushed all about him and he let it wash over him, driving out any thoughts beyond the black liquid against a cream background. His mind slowly counted down, five things you can see, four things you can hear, three things you can touch, two things you can smell, one thing you can taste. Tony sipped his coffee in silence.

He was nursing his second cup when his phone rang. Tony glanced at the caller ID and answered on the second ring, "Yeah Hap?"

"We're inbound, but the pilot says he can only get us as far as BWI," Happy sounded stressed on the other line and Tony could hear the low conversation of pilots in the background.

Tony ran a hand over his goatee, frustration leaking into his voice, "that's not good enough."

"I know, boss," the frustration in Happy's voice rose to meet his own. "Pepper's sending a town car to meet us. I'll text when we make it to Baltimore."

Tony hung up on the call and sighed into his coffee cup. More waiting, great, he had certainly never won any prizes for patience in his entire life and now seemed like the worst time to start practicing. He pulled his phone back out and resumed the updates to the Iron Spider suit that he had started last week. His mind and was grateful for the distraction and his hands were happy to have something to work on. Time slipped by as he became more and more engrossed in tweaking textile strength and spider leg design. With FRIDAY's occasional input, he was soon hard at work.

Happy's text came just as he was really getting into a flow. _We've landed and are headed your way._

Tony tapped out a quick reply and tried to turn back to his work, but his mind was preoccupied with the thought of meeting May. For the past many hours, he had felt numb, unsure if he was in a dream or not. May would make this all too real, and Tony wasn't sure he was ready to face that. The time ticked by before Happy finally texted again to say they had arrived. Tony gave up any pretense of trying to work and rose from his seat. His lukewarm, bitter coffee was tossed in the can on his way out of the breakroom and then Tony was striding for reception.

May stood at the reception desk dressed in jeans and a cardigan hastily thrown over a worn t-shirt. She was speaking with the same receptionist that Tony had seen earlier. Happy caught sight of him as he rounded the corner and gave a short wave before nudging May. She turned towards him and even in the fluorescent light and from a distance, Tony could tell she had been crying.

"Oh my god," May breathed. She darted towards him, arms half reaching for a hug before she stopped and wrapped them around herself instead. Tony fidgeted awkwardly, before patting her on the shoulder. The woman sniffled and raised one sweater covered hand to rest over her quivering mouth, "they said he was still in surgery, but the didn't say what his condition was."

"Why don't we sit down," Tony offered. "They wanted us in the surgery waiting room."

May stifled a fresh wave of tears and gave a small nod. Tony carefully led her away and Happy fell in step behind them as they followed signs to the surgery waiting room. Several other families were still gathered in various states of shock, and Happy quickly found a more secluded corner for them to sit before anyone could cause a fuss over the billionaire superhero.

Tony sat in silence, unsure what to say or do as May continued to stare blankly at her hands, silent tears occasionally running down her face. Instead he sat hunched over, elbows resting on knees that jiggled impatiently and hands clasped together. He really hated being so far out of his element.

An overly loud ringtone disturbed their silence and Happy reached into his suit jacket to grab his cellphone. A quick look at the caller ID and he excused himself with a warning look at his boss. He was gone for longer than Tony would have liked.

"Boss," Happy finally poked his head back around the door. "I have Metro Police and the DoDC here to speak with you."

Tony sighed and stood grudgingly, he flashed his trademarked smile at May, "I'll be back in a flash." That joke usually worked on Peter, but Tony could feel how hollow it was and choked down the next thing he was going to say. Instead he turned his back on the woman and waved over his shoulder before disappearing

Happy led him down a hall and back to a private office. Ms. Hoag, the owner of Damage Control and a police officer were seated at the table inside. Another officer stood looking out the window with an uninterested but self-important air.

Tony put his sunglasses back on, cinched up his tie, and strode into the room like he owned it, "Ms. Hoag, officers."

The officer at the table rose in greeting and held out a cordial hand, "Officer Todd," he introduced himself.

The officer at the window turned to Tony and tipped his hat, "Officer McElroy." His voice was haughty and the hand that he offered Tony was greasy. He instantly disliked the officer.

Ms. Hoag gestured for Tony to sit, "we just wanted to go over your involvement with the attack on the metro and assess if any more substantial cleanup is needed."

Tony sighed and flipped the chair around to straddle it. "Alright, but I have a tight schedule today, so let's make this quick."

"Let's just start with the most pressing question: why was Iron Man involved in this?" Ms. Hoag folded her hands over the notepad in front of her, a fountain pen rested beside it.

Tony removed his glasses to look pointedly at her fountain pen, suggesting what he had to say would warrant careful note taking. At this point, his best option was to tell a partial truth, "I had a man involved in this. He was hired on as my personal assistant through the Stark Industries Internship program."

Ms. Hoag's eyebrows raised in disbelief and Officer McElroy scoffed. Tony held up his hands to halt any comments, "if you have questions about how interns are placed, you should contact Pepper Pott's office, but I don't recommend trying that at his time of night."

He waited for a moment before continuing, "this intern alerted me to what was happening and here I am."

"Let me get this straight," Ms. Hoag uncapped her fountain pen and tapped it briefly on her notepad, "you were alerted to an ongoing terrorist attack by your _highschool_ intern and flew all the way from New York to help."

"That about sums it up," Tony shot back quickly. Damn that woman, poking about in his business. He had wanted to leave Peter's name and age out of this equation. Part of him wanted to ask her how she knew about Peter, but the other part told him not to press the ruthless woman when that could very well end with him backed into a corner.

Ms. Hoag grunted slightly in acknowledgement of his answer. Her pen scratched audibly against the paper as she scribbled down his statement.

"Is there anything we should be worried about in cleaning up the area?" Officer Todd asked, a small notebook clasped in his dark hand and a stubby pencil held at the ready.

"I don't believe there was a presence of anything extraterrestrial or enhanced if that's what your implying," Tony responded.

Officer Todd jotted down some brief notes before looking back up at the man in front of him, "what do you believe caused this?"

"My best guess would be C4 or Semtex given the damage to reinforced concrete, maybe TNT if they had enough of it." Tony flashed back to the scene of blood and rubble, his mind quickly analyzing and categorizing the damage he had seen. "But I know you have munitions experts and structural engineers on your team; they would be better at answering these questions than a billionaire, philanthropist playboy."

"We do have several very capable and expertly trained teams in place," Officer McElroy spoke next, "So why did you think your help would be needed when several agencies had already formed and executed a crisis response?"

"Because I'm Iron Man," Tony answered with a practiced tone of confidence and arrogance. Making such a simple statement into an effortless, auditory sneer required work, but Tony had been honing his craft over the years.

"So let me get this straight," Officer McElroy said slowly and deliberately. "You circumvented proper emergency protocols, interfered in an ongoing crisis situation, barged into an unstable structure without heed, and jeopardized a rescue operation because of you ego?! Christ man, you are a messed up son of a bitch!"

Officer Todd flinched and jerked towards his partner, "Earl! Coot it," he hissed in reproach.

Tony's glare was deadly when he finally spoke into the tense silence that followed, "If you recall, I spent several months as a prisoner in Afghanistan during _your_ War on Terror. I'm not leaving one of my own to die at the hands of terrorists if I can help it. And I did broadcast my efforts to all of your emergency frequencies. If my 'interference' was anyone's fault, it was yours for not coordinating my aid properly."

Officer Todd looked like he had been slapped, "of course we appreciate your help, Mr. Stark. Without your aid we likely would not have recovered those last three victims in time."

Tony nodded to the officer before turning to Ms. Hoag, "are we done here?"

The woman turned a severe stare to Tony and then over officers Todd and McElroy. Tony got the impression of a displeased matron glaring her misbehaving charges into submission, "yes," she finally said. "For now."

"I would love to say that this little meeting has been nice," Tony quipped as he rose from his chair and donned his signature sunglasses. He spread his arms in farewell and turned to leave, a hand waving over his shoulder in dismissal.

Officer McElroy sprang to his feet behind him, his beady eyes bulging in anger. "You may think you're untouchable, Stark, but wait until General Ross' office hears about this!"

Tony forced himself to keep from turning around, he laid his shoulders back and stuffed a hand in his pocket in a practiced stance of nonchalance, "by all means, make a formal complaint about me saving civilian lives in the aftermath of a terror attack. I'd love to see the field day the press will have."

He turned slightly to the room at large, "If you need anything else, feel free to not contact me. My lawyers and publicist will be in touch."

And with that, Tony swept from the room, putting more flare into opening the door then was really necessary. He really disliked bureaucracy, and Officer McElroy was one of the worst sorts to run into on the police force: cynical, armed, and hateful towards everyone. "Fri?"

"Yes, boss?" the AI responded immediately.

"File a complaint with Officer McElroy's precinct: include his badge number, full name, and address. I want every move he makes after this coming off as a bad cop retaliating," Tony explained with an undercurrent of ire and annoyance in his tone.

FRIDAY took a moment to respond, "Of course, boss. Would you like me to coordinate this with Ms. Potts?"

"Go for it, this'll help her blow off steam. She loves a good smackdown," Tony allowed himself to relish the thought of what Pepper Potts and the backing of a full legal team could do. And then his mind returned to the present, "and make sure I'm not disturbed for anything less than earth-shattering."

"Will do." FRIDAY's voice was crisp before subsiding into silence.

"I'm guessing from the theatrics that it went well?" Happy appeared beside Tony, easily falling into step a pace behind the man.

Tony nodded. "Any news?" he asked as they found the elevator back to the first floor.

"A nurse came by to let us know that he's still in surgery, but nothing more concrete," Happy's tone was even and informative. Tony was glad that his friend could keep a cool head in situations like these. Right now, he needed something to anchor him.

"God, it's been hours. That's not good," the elevator doors swung open and Tony pushed past a stunned housekeeper. He was immensely grateful when all she did was blush and push her cart into the elevator behind him without a word.

"No," Happy's reply was short and to the point.

Together the two men walked back to join May. She was curled into her chair, legs tucked beneath her, and a tremulous hand pressed to her mouth. She didn't look up or greet the two men as they sank into chairs on either side of her. Tony, for his part, was loathe to disturb her silence. He still didn't know what to say. Sorry I got your nephew into such a dangerous world? Sorry that it was something completely out of the blue that took him down? Sorry that I haven't defined my relationship with your kid and played an on-again off-again mentor depending on my moods? Tony shuddered and banished the thoughts to the back of his mind. He burrowed back into his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, staring out at the doors that led to surgery and waiting. It looked like he would just have to keep hoping that everything would be okay. He didn't really know what he would do if it wasn't.

* * *

 **Wow, so I just pulled almost 4000 words out of my ass. Hopefully you've enjoyed them!**

 **This and the next chapter were originally supposed to be one chapter, but I was pushing 7000 words before editing, so I figured I'd better split it into two chapters.**

 **I actually have no clue what inpatient hospital care is actually like considering I've either been unconscious through my own stay or too young to remember what waiting for family members to be released from surgery was like. That said, I do actually work in healthcare, but I'm just a receptionist for a mental health outpatient office. My job is mostly customer service with a side of scheduling and insurance paperwork. I'm actually writing the bare bones/outlines of this story on my (very few and very short) breaks between yelling at my providers to fix their icd codes so we can get paid and being yelled at by my patients.**

 **No clue what the repercussions for Iron Man crashing a disaster zone would be, but I thought there should be at least some. And I tried to write Anne-Marie Hoag, but I think I ended up writing Amanda Waller instead. Oops.**


	4. And Miles to Go Before I Sleep

Chapter 4: And Miles to Go Before I Sleep

Tony was relieved when the waiting finally came to an end. Though he had watched the surgery doors intently, he still managed to miss the doctor that now stood at the entrance to their waiting room.

"Family of Peter," the doctor called.

Both May and Tony stood in response. "How is he?" May breathed out anxiously.

"Are you May Parker, legal guardian?" the doctor read off of his clipboard before looking up at May for confirmation. She nodded and wiped at tear-strained cheeks.

The doctor turned to Tony. To his credit, he barely hesitated as he read the name off, "and you're Tony Stark, power of attorney?"

"That's me," Tony confirmed.

"Right, if you'll just follow me," the doctor beckoned before stepping back into the hallway and leading them a short ways to another doorway. The room he ushered them into was smaller and comfortably furnished. A sign on the open door read 'Family Meeting Room.' There was a table ringed by armchairs. Tony pulled one out for May before sitting in his own.

"I'm Dr. Evans, Mr. Parker's attending surgeon," the doctor introduced himself. He was on the younger side and muscular, with well kept blonde hair. Tony was reminded of Steve with a small pang that he quickly buried.

"I'm just going to cut right to the chase, but I want you to feel free to interrupt with any questions that you have as we go or if you need to take a break, okay?" Dr. Evans continued.

May nodded her head and Tony jerked his once in understanding. Dr. Evans cleared his throat and began scribbling on a form at the top of his chart. "Mr. Parker has just been brought out of surgery and is being settled into the ICU. His condition is currently serious and we are still working to stabilize his vital signs," The doctor paused for a moment before continuing. "He was admitted with a grade 3 concussion, pulmonary contusion, acute cyanosis resulting from the pulmonary contusion, internal hemorrhaging, multiple foreign bodies embedded in his left arm and leg, a lacerated wound to his left hip, a ruptured spleen, and fractures to his first and second lumbar vertebrae."

May's face crumpled at the news and she hugged herself tighter. Tony removed his twitching hand from the table and shoved them in his pocket before slumping back into his chair. This sounded bad, real bad.

"He did very well in surgery and we were able to stop the internal bleeding as well as extract the foreign bodies. He caught a lucky break and the damage to his spleen wasn't catastrophic, we were able to save it. However, his body has undergone a lot of trauma and he will need to be monitored closely," Dr. Evans pressed on.

Neither Tony or May responded. Tony didn't even know what to say in the face of everything. Peter's injuries seemed extensive and he wished that he could just throw money at this problem and make it all go away. Because he would give a good portion of his wealth not to have Peter or May, or even himself stuck in this hospital.

"I can't imagine how hard this is for you," Dr. Evans spoke again when both May and Tony remained silent. "Would you like to take a moment or should I continue?"

"Is he going to be okay?" May finally asked.

Dr. Evans looked down at his chart briefly before folding his hands in front of him and looking at up May with gentle eyes, "Peter's condition is currently stable, but we won't have a definite prognosis until we can better assess the extant of the damage to his lungs and organs. He suffered a pulmonary contusion from the blast wave, blast lung is the term you might be more familiar with. His left lung was bruised by the force of the explosion and that is making it hard for his body to take in oxygen right now. We currently have him on a ventilator to assist with breathing and he will shortly be sent for a CT scan in order to assess the percentage of his lung that has been bruised. If that percentage is over 20%, it will put him at a much greater risk to develop complications."

Tony stared stonily at the table in front of him. These were injuries he was familiar with and had seen. After all, he had at one point designed the weapons that caused this type of injury. Seeing the reality in front of him in such a personal manner made him nauseous. He regretted drinking those two cups of coffee now. The man glanced to his side to see May's face buried in a tissue.

"You mentioned a concussion?" she asked after a moment of sniffling.

Dr. Evans nodded, "yes, given his level of confusion when first triaged and the obvious signs of head injury, we have taken the precaution of supportive treatment for a heady injury. Right now we are waiting for the results of a CT and MRI before we can say for certain if there is any evidence of brain injury. In the meantime our surgeon placed an ICP monitor to check for any increase in intracranial pressure or swelling of the brain."

God no, Tony thought, anything but his brain. That was everything to the kid. His brain was what made Peter special. This was exactly the reason why he had wanted the kid to stick to the small neighborhoods of NYC, away from the big guns and the danger. Tony had hoped that would he never have to have this conversation with a doctor concerning a 16 year old that he had unexpectedly found himself responsible for. He had hoped that the kid would at least get to live a decent life before giving it all to being a hero. And now look where that decent life had got him, brain damaged on a damn school trip.

Dr. Evans cut through his train of thought, "The CT scan and MRI should also let us monitor how his spleen is recovering from surgery and help us confirm that there is no damage to Mr. Parker's spinal cord."

May stuttered at that, crying harder into her tissues. After a few moments, she managed to compose herself and clenched her hands around her tissues again, "can we see him soon?"

"Of course," the doctor assured, "as soon as Mr. Parker is fully settled into his room, we can arrange a brief visit. Would that be agreeable for you as well, Mr. Stark?"

Tony nodded gratefully, "yeah, that'd be good."

"Now I know this is a lot to take in so I want you to know that I will answer any questions that you have or listen to any concerns you may have with Mr. Parker's treatment to date," Dr. Evans offered. When neither May or Tony responded after nearly a minute, the man continued, "That's okay, if you think of anything later, let me or my staff know. For now, I know that a lot of what I've just told you may be confusing. Could you please tell me your understanding of what happened to Mr. Parker?"

"He's in deep shit," Tony replied.

Dr. Evans folded his hands carefully and May glared at the billionaire. She cleared her throat meaningfully before speaking, "Peter has suffered extensive trauma that your team was able to partially repair in surgery. Now he is stable, but needing close monitoring and your team is waiting on test results to determine where to go next. Is that about it?"

"That's right, as soon as we get the results back from his CT scan and MRI we will be able to tell you more about his prognosis," Dr. Evans confirmed. "Do you have any other questions?"

Tony shook his head. "I don't."

"Neither do I for right now. It's just so hard to wrap my mind around," May replied. She dabbed at the corner of her eye with one of the tissues.

"What's your favorite thing about Peter?" the doctor asked suddenly. "What makes him different?"

Tony looked at the man like he had two heads. Where in the hell was this coming from? Before he could sneer off the probing question, however, May's quiet voice stopped him.

"He's smarter than I will ever understand, but he doesn't let that define him. Peter has the biggest heart of any kid I've ever known and that's what makes him my special boy," May answered, her voice was remarkably strong and didn't break until the last word.

Tony looked over to see her resolute face staring back at the doctor. Her shoulders were tense and her hands still clenched around the tissues in her lap, but she was willing herself to make it through this meeting. Tony sat a moment in the empty silence before speaking up himself, "he believes in personal responsibility and looking out for the little guy, he's got a better head on his shoulders than most kids his age."

May looked over at him, surprise in her wet eyes. For a moment Tony feared she would breakdown, but then her eyes softened and she nodded her thanks to him.

"That's good, he sounds like quite the young man" Dr. Evans smiled kindly, a genuine warmth in his blue eyes. "Having a good support network is essential for his recovery, and I have no doubt that you will be able to provide that for him. I also want you to hold on to those impressions of Mr. Parker in the next few weeks, it will mean as much to you as it does to him."

There was another stretch of silence while Dr. Evans jotted down some notes in the file in front of him. After a minute, the man checked his watch before turning back to Tony and May, "Now, normally I would take this time to go over the possible treatments we're looking at right now and down the line." Dr. Evans paused and looked back at the closed door, "but I'm going to just come out and ask it. Is Peter a mutant?"

May started violently and Tony looked off to his side. Neither immediately answered.

"I'm asking because Mr. Parker's body has a high tolerance for medication and we had difficulty administering anesthetic and pain relievers. Normally this would be an indication of someone with a dependency to benzos, opiates, heroin, or another narcotic substance, but he also showed signs of rapid healing. We had trouble removing many of the smaller debris from his left leg because his body was trying to heal around them and they became trapped under new skin growth," Dr. Evans paused again at the look of concern from May as a hand flew over her mouth. He hastily added, "I don't want you to worry, we believe we've extracted all of the foreign bodies, and we will monitor him for any signs of infection or irritation."

"Why are you asking this?!" Tony demanded suddenly. He crossed his arms over his chest, "last I checked, it was your job to treat him, not collect his personal information."

Dr. Evans raised his hands in surrender. "Whoa now, I know this is a sensitive topic."

"Really now?" Tony shot back, sitting fully upright in his seat and leaning over the table towards the doctor with a dangerous glint in his eye, "because there had better be a damn good reason for this."

"My niece lifted the family car shortly after her fourteenth birthday," Dr. Evans offered, holding Tony's gaze, "I know better than most what it's like to try and protect someone like this."

"Please," May placed a hand on Tony's arm, trying to gently push him back into his seat, "what does this have to do with Peter?"

"Mr. Parker's healing abilities, whatever those may be, are probably the only reason he's made it this far and I want to make sure he has every resource available to help him recover," Dr. Evan's voice was low, but fervent. "Unfortunately, we aren't equipped to treat someone with his physiology and if he remains here much longer, I'm afraid someone will find him out. We're strictly bound by HIPAA and I am confident that my staff will protect Mr. Parker's personal health information as we do for everyone else, but the government has a long reach, especially in this area."

"I'm assuming, given who you are, Mr. Stark, and given that you have legal say in the care of Mr. Parker, that you have a facility capable of treating him?" Dr. Evans asked with a raised eyebrow.

Tony nodded before clearing his throat, "I have multiple specialists on call for the Avengers."

Dr. Evans smiled slightly at him, "I suggest that we look at transferring Peter to your facility as soon as we can get him off of mechanical ventilation and providing that his condition stays stable. I'm only going to be able to hold off suspicion for so long before someone puts two and two together."

With that, the doctor rose and gathered his files, "I'm going to give you two a moment to process everything. A nurse should be by in a little while to take you to see Mr. Parker. If you have any questions, just let my team know. We're all rooting for Peter."

Silence fell over the room for a long stretch after Dr. Evans left. May was struggling to keep everything together, desperately running over a list in her head of who she would need to call, how much paid time off she had left from work, if their insurance was going to cover such extensive surgery, and what she could do with herself while waiting to find out if her child was going to be left disabled for life. Tony, for his part, was also planning. He fired off a few quick texts to let Happy know that Peter was out of surgery before he began composing an email to Pepper. He would need her help coordinating Helen Cho's medical team at the compound if he was going to have them in place by the time Peter was cleared for a transfer. He would also need serious PR coverage if General Ross got wind of what was going on or if someone leaked either Peter's relationship with him or his status as an enhanced individual. God, this was going to be even more of a nightmare if he had to deal with the full force of the press while simultaneously trying to save a kid.

When he was finally finished dispersing his personal assistants and fiance, Tony sat back in his chair to wait some more. May paced the meeting room, phone to her ear and a lost look in her eyes.

"They promised this line was 24 hours, but I've been on hold for 15 minutes now. How am I supposed to get information on Peter's covered providers and hospitals if no one will talk to me!" May huffed, mostly to herself, as she kept pacing.

Tony watched her for a few minutes more before he realized what she was trying to do. "Hey, I don't want to hear anything about medical expenses. Stark Industries will be covering everything."

May stood aghast, staring at him blankly. Her phone was still to her ear and Tony could vaguely her the customer service rep trying to get her attention. Without a word, May hung up the phone and sank into one of the armchairs against the wall. "What?" she asked, confusion in her voice.

"As an intern for Stark Industries, Peter is covered by our insurance. And even if that doesn't come through, it's not like I can't afford to pay out of pocket for medical expenses," Tony shrugged.

May hugged herself tighter, bottom lip trembling ever so slightly. For a second, Tony was afraid he had overstepped. Maybe he should have just quietly commandeered the bill?

"I'm grateful for the help, really," May said after a moment, seeming to read Tony's mind. "I just wish I had the means to do that for him."

Tony's eyes softened and his mind raced to find something nice to say, "Hey, you do everything for that kid. I know he means the world to you."

"He's all I have left," May was crying now. It was a softer, quieter crying from the hysteric sobs of their first phone call.

Tony didn't know what to say in return. He'd never been good at comforting people and only excelled in pushing them away. His hands began to fidget nervously, so he shoved them in his pocket. The two sat in silence.

Finally a young nurse poked his head around the partially open door, "family of Peter?"

May and Tony stood again as the nurse entered the room. He wore pale pink scrubs that contrasted with his dark skin. A badge clip sat proudly on his chest, sparking in the fluorescent light and displaying his name and title clearly.

"Yes?" May answered finally.

"We've finished getting Peter settled in a room. You can see him now if you like," the nurse offered.

Tony glanced down to see the name printed on his badge, "lead the way, Marvin."

Marvin startled slightly at the use of his first name, eyes going slightly wide when he heard it coming from Tony. But then his mask of professionalism was back in place and he beckoned for the two to follow him.

"I just want to go over what you're going to see," Marvin began as they wound their way through the halls. "It's hard to see a love one in the ICU and there may be a lot of machines and alarms that you won't be familiar with. If you have any questions about anything in Peter's room, just ask me or one of the other nurses."

Tony nodded, familiar with this spiel. The downside to a high profile life of wealth, power, and saving the world on a near yearly basis tended to come with high hospital bills and more than a few grey hairs. He tried not to think about everyone who had ended up in the hospital from fighting alongside him over the last ten years.

They stopped at an elevator long enough for Marvin to call it and punch in the appropriate floor. As the doors closed in front of them, the nurse began again, "Peter is currently heavily sedated to give his body a chance to heal and so that he won't fight against us or his ventilator. This reaction can sometimes happen to individuals who have suffered head injuries. He is on a ventilator to regulate his oxygen intake and give his bruised lung a chance to heal. The front right side of his head is partially shave so we could insert an ICP bolt to monitor his intracranial pressure. We have Peter in a back brace to stabilize his fractured vertebrae and also in a soft collar just until we can confirm that there isn't an damage to his spine or soft tissue swelling in his neck. He is currently in soft restraints to stop him from trying to pull out any of his IV ports or his central line. He's been fighting the sedative pretty hard and this is just a precautionary measure. While the restraints are on, he will be constantly monitored by his care team. And here we are," Marvin stopped in front of a double wide door with a window set in the middle.

Another nurse slipped through the door just as Marvin reached out to open it. She wordlessly handed over a chart before pointedly looking at the floor and speed walking away. Marvin looked over the chart briefly, clucking slightly at something he read. After a moment he looked back up to the anxious adults in front of him. "We're currently past visiting hours, but you can go ahead and see him for a short time. Given his state, I have to limit the visits to ten minutes each and one at a time. But visiting hours start again at 6 am and you are welcome back in to see him anytime after that. Mrs. Parker, would you follow me?"

Tony stepped aside as Marvin ushered May into the ICU room. He resisted the urge to watch through the window in the door and instead shuffled over to the small waiting room. For once, the room was empty. He leaned against the wall on the other side of the entrance, too anxious to sit still. There was a digital clock on one of the walls and Tony watched it intensely, waiting for the minutes to count down. He almost wished it was analogue, so he could scrutinize the second hand as it ticked on into eternity.

The ten minutes passed tortuously slow as Tony focused on nothing but the clock. In the distance, he could hear a door open and close. The sound echoed for a moment before the click of low-heeled boots on linoleum flooring overtook it. May appeared around the corner, face screwed up in pain. She let out a low whine, voice whisper soft and choked. The woman seemed to collapse in on herself. She bent at the waist, one arm wrapped around her stomach in pain. He hand braced her lower back as she sobbed.

"I pressured him to come on this trip," May cried, hands twisting the hem of her cardigan viciously. "If I had just let him stay home, this wouldn't have happened."

For a few moments, Tony just stood and watched the woman in front of him break down. It wasn't until her knees shook that he realized he should probably do something. Not entirely sure what to do and with his discomfort clear as day on his face, he wrapped one arm around May's shoulders and supported her elbow with his other. Carefully, he led her over to some chairs and helped her fall into one.

"Hey, hey," he tried his best to soothe. "None of that, there was no way you could have known. The May Parker I know just wanted what was best for her nephew."

He didn't say anything more, didn't trust himself to. May just turned her face into his shoulder and cried. Happy appeared by their side in a minute, tissue box held out to May as the woman slowly hiccuped into silence. She took the tissues gratefully and the head of security backed off a respectable difference. Tony wasn't entirely certain when the man had joined them, but he was grateful for the grounding presence.

"What am I going to do?" May asked hollowly after her tears had subsided. "I've already lost everything else."

"We'll do whatever we can to give him a fighting chance. I have some of the best specialists in the world being called in right now and Peter isn't going down without a fight. Whatever happens, we will get through this," Tony put as much confidence and charm into his voice and body language as he could muster. He was rewarded with May finally turning to face him, her eyes gleaming behind unshed tears.

May nodded, "thank you." She wiped her eyes and squared her shoulders.

Tony squeezed her knee in a gesture of solidarity. They sat together in silence for several minutes before a quiet voice interrupted them.

"Mr. Stark? Would you like to see him now?" Marvin stood in the doorway of the waiting room, looking at Tony and May with a practiced softness.

Tony unfolded stiff limbs with only a token protest and followed Marvin. The nurse held the door to the ICU room open. The billionaire took a moment to breathe and remind himself that he was Tony Stark before pushing into the room. The skyline of DC twinkled through the window on the opposite wall, and for a moment, Tony didn't want to take his eyes off of the city lights. But he knew it was time to face reality. Slowly, he turned to towards Peter.

Marvin was right, Peter did look completely different from the normal sight of a hyperactive, earnest teenager. Tony had seen his fair share of injured comrades in the hospital. Each case had been different and with each new person Tony had visited, there was always something unique that truly got to him. With the kid, it was the twitching. The man watched as Peter jerked spasmodically, hands turning in restraints that he knew would give little resistance to him at full strength.

"I thought you said he was sedated," Tony spoke bluntly.

Marvin nodded, "he is sedated. While we did have some difficulty finding a proper dose for his tolerance level, some restlessness is to be expected in cases like Peter's. His brain and body are adjusting to trauma and trying to regain their proper functioning."

Tony nodded unsteadily and moved closer to the kid's bedside, looking down on pale skin that had finally been washed clean of dirt and blood. The boy lay flat on his back, a bulky brace protruding from under the off white blanket. His left side was bandaged and Tony tried not to remember the sight of metal and stones buried in his flesh. The thought made his stomach protest and Tony swallowed convulsively against the rising bile. His eyes followed the curve of the soft collar under which the central line disappeared and then traced up to Peter's face. The kid looked like shit. Literal death warmed over. But he wasn't one for cliches, so he kept his thoughts to himself.

The man reached down with a slightly unsteady hand to grasp Peter's largely uninjured right shoulder, thumb rubbing uncertain circles into the bare skin. Pepper occasionally did this for him on a bad day, so he hoped it was at least somewhat comforting. He looked at the kid's face, trying to see past eyes that roved beneath closed lids and a muscle in his jaw line that spasmed. Tony's eyes trailed up to where a small, white bolt disappeared into Peter's skull and, nope, he was done. This was too much.

"I'm not good at these bedside confessions," Tony muttered quietly. "Just don't die, okay?"

With that, Tony turned from the kid's side and tried to keep an even pace to the door. He carefully tamped down the part of him that wanted to run for it and instead left the room feeling unusually worn and tired. The door closed behind him softly and he stood for a moment before walking away. God this was going to be a long week.

* * *

 **Okay, so this one got away from me. Waaaayyy more medical research than I ever wanted to do, and I don't even like Grey's Anatomy or any of those doctor shows. Since it's been raining for like a week straight here, I've had some extra time to research and I've tried to keep this portrayal consistent with what I read on blast injuries, but dammit Kirk, I'm a historian, not a doctor! So please, if anyone spots any inconsistencies or really egregious medical mumbo-jumbo, please let me know how to fix it!**

 **For the injuries list: everything I described in this chapter should hopefully be consistent with blast injuries. I have Peter's left side facing the blast wave which is why it is much more heavily injured. Pulmonary contusions, concussions/TBIs, internal bleeding, and damage to organs are all common with someone standing closer to a blast. Honestly, I probably overdid the injuries though and I'm guessing that Peter shouldn't have survived this story, but oh well, healing factor amiright?**

 **I'm not as fond of this chapter given how out of my depth I am here. I would appreciate any constructive criticism/comments that you have and I appreciate all of the wonderful comments and kudos that have already been left! It's really nice to see how people are receiving my work as well as suggestions for how this story should play out.**

 **Also, I just got a promotion at work! I'll be moving from the front office where I handle customer service and insurance paperwork to the back office where I'm going to handle insurance payments and more paperwork. While I am super excited about this move, it does unfortunately mean that my work load just got substantially worse. For the next few weeks I will training my replacement, finishing any outstanding projects, and getting ready to officially move to the back. I do get a nice office with a bookcase though, and I get to decorate it however I want so my coworkers better be prepared for me to cover it in ALL the nerdy shit!**


	5. The World is Too Much With Us

It wasn't until two in the morning that Tony finally convinced May to get some sleep. They were both exhausted and Tony knew his eyes were just as bloodshot as May's, but it still took all of his powers of persuasion to get May out of the hospital.

"Fine," May had finally relented. "But I'm not leaving."

When Tony just looked at her in mild disappointment, she added: "I can sleep in the car."

The exhausted woman adamantly refused even the closest hotel, wanting to be on the property in case something more happened to Peter. And that was how Tony found himself leaning against his town car at three in the morning, whispering into his bluetooth to keep from waking May as she slept inside. "How are we doing with the med team?"

Pepper paused for a moment on the other line before replying, "Helen has the surgical team on call, but we're still trying to get Captain Rogers' anesthesiologist on board."

Tony sighed, "Alright, just offer him whatever price he wants. Johnson may be a condescending pain in the ass, but he's the only one who managed to sedate Cap before."

"Tony," Pepper's voice was gentle, but there was an undeniable warning in it. "We need to talk about this. Not right now, because it's three in the morning and you're exhausted, but we do need to talk."

"There's nothing to talk about, Pep." Tony replied.

"Really?" she shot back. "Because you tore out of a board meeting to save your high school intern, ended up on the headline of world news with that intern, and just called in most of the specialists reserved for the Avengers! Yeah, we need to talk."

Silence stretched between them. "International news?" Tony finally asked.

"You and Peter are front page of the BBC, New York Times, Al Jazeera, Guardian, and the Washington Post right now," Pepper informed him. "I have every major news network in the country asking for an interview or a statement."

"The dead aren't even cold yet," Tony always had a tenuous relationship with the media and right now he really hated them. "I swear they're sharks."

He barely paused before speaking again, "I assume you're handling this?"

"We'll be releasing a statement in the morning, but for now I'm holding them at bay." Pepper assured him. She lapsed into silence for a few beats before sighing heavily. "I thought we promised no more secrets."

Tony hung his head, "I know. I know. I'll tell you more later today."

"Okay. I trust you." She added, "and Tony?"

"Yeah?" he answered.

"Get some sleep, alright? I'll talk with you later." Pepper disconnected the call.

Tony tilted his head back against the car roof, staring up at a starless sky. He shuddered at the image before opening the door and crawling into the passenger seat. With a weary sigh, he leaned forward until his head was touching the dash. For a moment, everything stopped as he melted into the support of the car. His brain switched off and the stress leached from his shoulders. Tony slumped boneless in the seat, tired and grieving for a boy who had already seen too many hardships.

"Boss, it's time to wake up!" FRIDAY's alert shook him back to reality.

Tony jerked upright, rubbing his sore neck and rolling stiff shoulders. A quick glance at his watch told him it was 5:30 in the morning. He wasn't even sure he had really slept, but for now, it would have to be enough. He unfolded himself from the passenger seat and stepped out into the pre-dawn gloom.

May was still curled in the backseat. Tony had half a mind to leave her sleeping, but the thought of her retribution was too much to bear and he quietly opening her door. "Come on, rise and shine."

The woman stirred feebly for a second before every muscle seemed to tense and she shot upright, "Peter!"

"Woah!," Tony jumped out of the way, staring warily at a frantic May. "Hey, it's okay. He's okay."

May calmed slowly, a hand pressed tightly to her forehead as she breathed through the last tendrils of adrenaline. After another moment, she pushed herself out of the vehicle and straightened next to Tony. The two looked at each other for a moment, neither sure if they should say something. And then they moved towards the hospital door as one, silent and exhausted.

After a brief breakfast - thank Christ for 24 hour Starbucks - Tony walked May back up the stairs and to Peter's room. Happy was still outside the door, a focused look in his eyes as he stood with hands clasped in front of him. The man only looked up when he heard May and Tony approach.

"Visiting hours started five minutes ago, we're clear to go in whenever," he informed them.

"Thank you," May's voice was small as she held one trembling hand over her chest with the other. Happy simply nodded and opened the door for her, allowing the woman to fully disappear inside before shutting it quietly again.

Tony watched her go, deciding to stand with his former bodyguard and give the woman some much needed privacy. Happy bounced on the balls of his feet, swinging his arms around to clasp his hands behind his back before he finally broke the silence, "Pepper sent over a hotel reservation." The statement was clearly an invitation for rest.

Tony looked up at his friend. "You okay here on your own?"

"I've done longer stints than this," Happy nodded.

The billionaire sighed and rubbed the back of his head, "yeah, sounds good. I'm too old for this bullcrap."

Happy snorted and turned away, hiding a small smile behind his broad palm. "Whatever you say."

The sun had finally begun to rise when Tony walked out of the hospital doors. He felt tired and worn, but still managed a trademarked smile for the front desk staff and curious visitors in the main lobby.

"Was that Tony Stark?" a voice questioned behind him in a poor attempt at whispering.

Another voice answered, "it can't be."

"I swear it was him," the first voice argued back at the same time that another voice called "Iron Man?"

And then the doors of the hospital closed behind him and he was left blinking in the early morning light, thankful for his sunglasses. "FRIDAY?"

The AI pulled up a map in his viewfinder before speaking, "I've already downloaded the reservation confirmation to your phone, would you like me to start the car?"

Tony looked at the distance to the hotel and sighed in relief that it was barely a third of a mile away. Pepper had booked him one of the closest stays. The reservation was for three adjoining king suites at a three star Marriott, a far cry from his usual luxury. Right now, however, Tony would give anything for a bed and some privacy.

"No," Tony finally responded. "I'll walk.

"Are you sure, boss?" the AI asked.

Tony sighed and started walking, his briefcase swinging beside him, "yeah, I need a minute to clear my head."

The staff at the hotel practically fawned over him as soon as he walked through the door. He was quickly checked in, gritting his teeth as the hostess apologized profusely for being unable to upgrade him to a more fitting accommodation. He smiled briefly as a bellhop offered to take his briefcase, but bypassed him all the same. The concierge called out to him, offering help with his itinerary, but Tony just put his head down and powered through the open lobby, making a beeline for the elevator. Christ did he miss his handlers, he hated dealing with people.

A flash of light to his right splashed the lobby in shadows for a brief second. Tony's head jerked over his shoulder to see a teenage boy sitting at one of the breakfast tables with phone in hand, snapping pictures of him.

"Hey," Tony grouched at the kid. "Knock it off!"

The boy's eyes widened and he put the phone down. Tony turned from the startled child to another flash of light, A middle aged mom sat with her squalling twin girls dressed in soccer uniforms. Her jewel encrusted phone obscured the majority of her face as she took picture after picture. The billionaire glared at the woman, but she simply shrugged, flipped him off, and kept snapping away like an amateur paparazzi.

Tony tried to take a deliberate and calming breath, but it caught in his throat as the first tendrils of panic rose in his chest. He hated the feeling of losing control, especially over something as meaningless and commonplace as this. While obnoxious at times, the enthralled public was a constant in Tony's life. And normally he would bask in their attention, playing the crowd to stroke his ego. But he had been awake for nearly 36 hours at this point, Peter had nearly died, and to top it all off his tired mind couldn't stop thinking of the gore covered metro station that he had pulled his intern out of less than 12 hours ago.

The billionaire turned from the lobby with a shaky breath and tried to walk evenly to the elevator. He only pressed the elevator button once, no matter how much he wanted to desperately jam it, but his shaking hand still unconsciously reached up to loosen his tie. The elevator finally dinged, and Tony let out a small huff of relief.

A housekeeper bustled out of the open doors, pushing a cart in front of him and another one behind. He looked up briefly to see Tony standing in front of him. The housekeeper's eyes widened comically at the sight of the billionaire before he reached back to hold the elevator. Tony nodded his head in appreciation and practically fell into the elevator, jamming the closed door button before he had even selected his floor. Finally, the doors closed and cut off his sight of a stunned lobby.

"Friday?" Tony bit out, focusing on the feeling of his chest rising and falling.

"What do you need, boss?" the AI responded.

Tony took a deep breath and held it for several seconds before letting it back out, "buy the rights to those pictures before they hit the internet."

The AI chirped in affirmation. She would soon have this whole mess sorted out and forwarded to Pepper, who would know exactly what to do with everything. When the elevator doors opened again, Tony stepped off immediately, nearly colliding with a young mother and her toddler son.

"Mama!" the little boy squealed, "It's Iron Man!"

Tony quickly squirted the pair and charged up the hallway as the kid continued to yell. His breathing stuttered with the effort of keeping his temper - and panic - in check.

"Shush Timmy," the boy's mother tried to quiet him, "it's not nice to point or shout."

Tony frantically jammed his keycard into the lock and sighed in appreciation when the door finally opened. He slammed the door behind him and bolted it, chest heaving as he laid his forehead against the cool wood. Would they all just leave him alone?!

The metal doorframe was sturdy under Tony's tight grip as he braced himself against the familiar panic. His chest hurt, heart clenching and racing. His breath hitched as every inhale tried to come before he had the chance to exhale. His fingers tingled unpleasantly where they squeezed the door frame for dear life. Fighting for control of his body took longer than he would have liked and with every minute that passed, Tony struggled against the impulse to bolt, to get as far away from this nightmare as possible. Finally, the overwhelming crush of exhaustion fueled anxiety passed and Tony sagged gratefully into the support of the door, energy completely sapped.

The man took a moment to compose himself before turning to the bed. The white comforter was heavenly as he sank into it. Tony managed to toe off his oxfords and yanked his tie over his head before his eyes closed. He'd wake up later in the morning and properly get undressed and crawl under the covers, but for now, he just wanted to sleep. Sleep and pray that this whole day was a dream.

* * *

 **Gah, this chapter was so hard to write. I originally wanted to work Pepper in somehow and have a section looking at Tony's emotional state, but I also wanted to get them moved on** **to the compound.** **So I started this chapter with several completely separate sections written and no clue how to tie them together.** **This chapter was honestly so hard to churn out and I seriously contemplated scrapping it in favor of skipping ahead to Peter's POV. But I needed to get something out since it's been nearly a month since my last chapter. So here is my truncated appeasement gift until I finish the next, much longer, chapter.**

 **It's been a frustrating few weeks as I've tried to work this chapter through.** **I've worked over pretty much every day trying to wrap up my projects and make sure everything is in order for my replacement.** **So much paperwork. All of the paperwork. Also some really crappy situations involving child custody disputes at work, my least favorite type of situations. And someone had a heart attack in my lobby; that was a crappy 911 call. I will be happy to leave this portion of the job for the less exciting world of insurance payments.** **I start the new position this business week and I am so excited to leave behind the chaotic front office for the relatively quiet back office. Hopefully the first week isn't going to be too intense and I can work more on the next chapter.**

 **I also wanted to take the time to thank all of you wonderful people for the comments and kudos! I was able to respond to some of your comments this past week and hopefully I will be able to make some time to respond to others as well. Your feedback, constructive criticism, hopes, dreams, first borns are all appreciated!**


	6. From Rest and Sleep

Tony woke just past noon to the blare of his phone. His hand shot out from the cocoon of blankets and groped on his nightstand, raising his phone long enough to see who was calling before he hit accept. "Yeah, this is Tony."

"Tony?" Happy's tired voice filtered through the other line.

The billionaire sat bolt upright in alarm. "What's wrong? Did something happen?!"

"Nothing's wrong," Happy was quick to assure him. "They've just come back with the scan results and are reviewing them with May. It looks like the meeting is going to take a bit, if you want to get something to eat and maybe shower, they'll probably be done by then."

Tony sighed, he had wanted to be there for that meeting, "Alright, be there in 30."

The man was showered, dressed, and out the door in just 15 minutes. His clothing was rumpled from the day before and stained with sweat, but the shower had done him a world of good. With a confidence that he wished was genuine, Tony strode into the hospital. He found Happy waiting for him outside of Peter's door.

"That was fast," the man said as Tony stopped beside him. "They haven't finished their meeting yet." Happy jerked his head down the hallway where Tony assumed May had gone.

Tony turned towards Peter's room, looking through the window at the boy. "Has there been any change?"

Happy shook his head, "not as far as I have heard."

"Just," Tony gestured vaguely, "let me know when they're done." He turned from his friend and ducked into Peter's room. The previous evening, he had only managed a meager few minutes by the kid's bedside before the reality of everything that had happened crashed down and sent him fleeing. Today, however, his need to make sure that Peter was still breathing overrode his fear.

A red haired nurse in green scrubs looked up from Peter's infusion pumps as the man entered, "good morning, you must be Mr. Stark. Feel free to have a seat. I'll stay out of your hair."

The billionaire looked at the offered chair for a moment, but never moved to it. Instead, he stood watching Peter's mostly still form in front of him. The shaking from the previous night had died down to intermittent twitching and Tony wondered if the kid was getting any better or if the medical team had finally managed to fully sedate him. Under the fluorescent lighting, the boy's skin seemed nearly translucent, making the visibly bruised and damaged areas stand out in stark contrast. His hair lay limply around him, clean but loose. Even without being covered in blood and dust, the kid still looked bad.

"Hell," the man muttered to himself before rounding the boy's bed to stand in front of the window. DC stretched out before him, cramped buildings that sat low to the ground. Tony missed the skyscrapers of New York, how the city seemed to stretch up forever. The view in front of him almost made him claustrophobic, so much activity so close to the ground. The man sighed, resigning himself to watching the activity of the campus below him. Every so often, he would sneak a glance sideways to watch Peter's reflection in the window.

Nurses bustled around behind him, attending to Peter and charting his progress. The billionaire let their motion fade to the background until the only things that existed where the boy's reflection, the world outside the window, and his own racing thoughts.

"Tony?" May's voice asked softly.

Tony looked up from her reflection in the window and turned to see the woman standing at the foot of Peter's bed. The few hours of fitful sleep she had managed to steal had done nothing for the bags under her eyes or her lost expression. Tony was wary to ask, but still had to know, "what's going on?"

May sighed and looked down at her nephew sadly for a minute, tugging her cardigan closer around her to ward off a non-existent chill. "We just finished with the meeting, give me a minute and I'll fill you in." she promised.

Tony nodded and left the room, glancing back as May squeezed one of Peter's hands in both of hers, slender fingers running over his scraped knuckles. The billionaire turned away, having enough tact not to intrude on the woman's grief. His feet backtracked to the small waiting room outside of the ICU doors and he took a seat in one of the comfier armchairs. Leaning back into the seat and closing his eyes, Tony let the relative quiet wash over him.

A few minutes passed before May sunk into the seat beside him. The man marveled at how a grown woman could so easily fold herself into the chair as she tucked her knees under her chin in an uncomfortably vulnerable pose.

"What did Dr. Evans say?" he asked after she didn't immediately speak.

"The x-rays and scans all came back with no evidence of injury to his spinal cord or his neck and they'll be removing the soft collar soon. So thank God for small miracles," May sniffed.

"See? What did I tell you?" Tony smiled at her, "he's going to be fine."

May continued to stare down at her knees, "there's more."

Tony's smile fell and he reached out to place what he hoped was a steadying hand on May's shoulder. "What's the bad news?"

"The CT scan showed bruising on 29% of his left lung, Dr. Evans says that will place him at a higher risk for complications, like pneumonia. And his brain is swelling." May's voiced trembled slightly and a few more tears tracked down her puffy, red cheeks. "I had hoped that whatever healing abilities he has would have helped. I don't know how much more of this I can take."

Tony didn't really know how to reply, so they sat in silence for several minutes before May spoke again, "they're going to monitor him for a little while longer and if it looks like they can test to start weaning him off of the ventilator, they'll let us know."

"That's good," Tony replied.

May simply nodded before unfolding herself from the chair with a muttered "excuse me." She took a moment to breath deeply before walking out of the room in the direction of the cafeteria. Tony didn't follow. After several minutes, his restless legs carried him back to Peter's room.

"Boss?" Happy asked as Tony stopped beside him. His former bodyguard looked exhausted, swaying slightly where he stood beside the door to Peter's room.

Tony crossed his arms to still his trembling hands. God, he hated hospitals. He watched the door silently for a moment before finally responding to Happy's question, "why don't you and May head to the hotel for a while?"

Happy sighed gratefully, "you sure you're okay to stay here?"

Tony nodded, looking over his shoulder at his friend, "yeah. Pepper wants me to go over some documents and this place has wifi." The billionaire knew his air of nonchalance wasn't fooling his friend, but at this point the act was more for himself than anyone else.

"Sleep would be nice," Happy agreed. "I'll keep my phone on if you need me."

Tony waved off his friend's concern. He was a mostly mature adult, a few hours by himself in a stressful situation wasn't going to kill him. "Do you think I can sweet talk or buy my way into a private office here?"

"I've already spoken with the head of security and one of the hospital administrators. They don't have a private room for you," Happy shook his head. "But the head of security did offer his office if you need to lay low from the press or anyone else here. And he'll sneak you out a service exit if needed."

"Got it," Tony quickly catalogued the information, hoping that he wouldn't have to use it. "I think May wandered off to the cafeteria if you want to find her on your way down. If she gives you hell or tries to stay, I don't know, just figure something out. We all need some sleep."

"Thanks," Happy didn't look particularly pleased with the suggestion, but turned in the direction of the cafeteria nonetheless.

The billionaire waited until his friend had disappeared around the corner before turning to a secluded corner of the waiting room and setting up shop. Thankfully, most of the other worried families gathered there were too absorbed in their own grief and worry to bother him. And Tony certainly wasn't going to press his luck. With a small rolling magazine rack and the contents of the nearest vending machine, the billionaire had fashioned himself a makeshift desk and settled in to get some work done.

He visited Peter at regular intervals, needing to ensure that the teenager was still safe within the confines of the hospital and not bleeding out under a ton of concrete. Nurses came and went as he stood at the window of Peter's room, a constant presence by the boy's side. The red-haired nurse in the green scrubs kept up a steady stream of one-sided conversation with Peter about anything and everything while she worked. And if a monitor sounded while Tony was present, she explained to both the man and the unconscious teenager what was going on.

"Don't worry," she told him when the ECG monitors had alarmed, "it's just warning me that Peter's heart rate is going up. We're still adjusting the infusion rate up to his tolerance level, the last infusion wasn't quite strong enough but everything is still within normal parameters. I'll adjust the ECG so it doesn't go off again needlessly."

She stood by Peter's bed watching his vitals fall back into the green before reaching over to scribble on his chart. Tony was immensely grateful for the nurse's chatter as she talked him through the day and into the night. He was almost surprised to take a break from an irate General Ross' rather taxing email chain and see that it was already dark outside the window. The lights of the campus below him shone brightly and Tony allowed himself to imagine for a moment that he was looking out at New York instead of DC. Then his phone chimed with another email notification and the moment was lost.

He continued to work through dinner and into the late hours of the night, hammering out the final details of an itinerary for Peter's transfer to the compound. With all of Pepper and Helen's hard work, the medical team had been assembled and the infirmary prepped for the new arrival. Now all they were waiting on was medical records to finish processing their request for Peter's records. If all else failed, Tony could waltz into the hospital's records office first thing in the morning with his medical power of attorney in hand and the threat of his personal ire motivating the staff to expedite his request.

"Good evening Mr. Stark," a rich, feminine voice interrupted his train of thought.

Tony jerked up from the document he was editing to see a short woman dressed in dark blue scrubs standing at the entrance to the waiting room. He shot up from his seat, nearly over balancing the magazine rack in his haste. "Yes?" he responded.

The woman beckoned to him and Tony fell in step behind her as she led the way to Peter's room, nearly having to jog in order to keep up with the woman's small but fast stride. Only when they were inside with the door closed did she finally introduce herself, "My name is Chrissie Batra and I am Mr. Parker's respiratory therapist."

Chrissie captured his hand in a firm shake, adding a little bit more pressure than was strictly necessary. Though she was slight and barely stood above five feet, there was an undeniable air of authority and fierceness surrounding her. Black hair pulled back in a tight bun framed the no-nonsense expression on her deep olive toned face.

Tony was slightly taken aback by the thrill of intimidation that ran through him before he consciously relaxed his body language and smiled winningly. "A pleasure, I'm sure," he replied as he returned the handshake with an equal amount of pressure.

Chrissie nodded briefly to him in approval before continuing, "I've reviewed Mr. Parker's radiographs with Dr. Evans; he is healing remarkably fast. Mr. Parker has already passed a screen to start the weaning process for his ventilator. We've begun to step down his sedation in anticipation of starting a spontaneous breathing trial in the next hour and should know if we will be attempting extubation in three hours, give or take."

Tony sucked in a quick breath. It had been just over 24 hours since Peter had been wheeled out of surgery and already he was improving. His hands shook slightly at the thought, maybe, just maybe this whole thing was going to be okay. Maybe they'd get Peter back in the same condition that he had left, at least physically. The kid was probably going to be a mess for a while afterwards; Tony knew from personal experience. But he'd worry about Peter's emotional wellbeing after the kid had regained consciousness.

The billionaire glanced over to Peter's bed, watching the boy's smaller body writhe spasmodically in the soft restraints. His twitching and agitation had gotten worse since earlier that morning when the man had first checked in on him; Tony hoped that was because he was coming off of the sedative and not an indicator of brain damage. He wanted to ask about the swelling May had mentioned earlier, but chickened out at the last moment, hoping to hold onto the good news of a possible extubation than worry about long term damage. "Will you keep us updated?" he finally asked.

"Of course," Chrissie promised. Without another word, she left Tony to collect a small stack of paperwork from Peter's bedside. And then she was gone again as quickly as she had appeared.

As soon as the respiratory therapist was out of earshot, Tony phoned Happy. The man sounded groggy and annoyed when he answered, "what, Tony?"

"They may be ready to extubate the kid in a few hours," the billionaire started with no preamble and no apology for waking the other man.

There was a rustling of sheets in the background, a groan, and the click of what Tony assumed was a bedside lamp before Happy responded. "I can be there in 30."

"Don't bother with it right now," Tony responded. "I'll let you know more when they tell me more. But Hap?"

"Yeah, I'm listening," Happy's voice was serious despite his exhaustion and once again Tony was grateful that he had hand-picked a staff that could handle shit without breaking.

"I need you and May ready to move when I give the word." He paused to make sure no one else was around to hear him. "As soon as they give us the go ahead, I want to get Peter the hell out of dodge before Ross comes down on all our asses."

Happy huffed on the other end of the line, "I hear you; just let me know and we'll be ready to move."

Tony nodded once, mostly to himself, and hung up the call without a goodbye. He returned back to this workspace, trying desperately to focus on anything other than the incredibly vulnerable position of the teen down the hall from him.

Waiting for the results of Peter's breathing test was torturous. To cope with the stress-induced anxiety, Tony passed the time in a haze of caffeine and work. Nevertheless, the man paced the waiting room more often than he managed to do anything remotely productive concerning his still massive pile of paperwork. Between negotiating with his insurance company, responding to the growing demand for an interview, and the growing list of interview mock-ups his publicists sent for him to review, Tony had a lot of work on his agenda that he really should be using to distract himself. But he just couldn't. Everything in him seemed to tingle with nervous energy and he found himself fidgeting relentlessly, leg jiggling uncomfortably fast as his mind bounced back and forth between work and Peter.

"You're almost as bad as Peter," May commented as she sank into the chair across from him. "He can never stay still."

Tony started at her sudden appearance, "you should have kept sleeping, we won't know anything for another two hours or so."

"And if something had happened to Peter? It would just have been you here... and it'll be a cold day in hell when I'm not looking after Peter if I'm still able," she bit out.

The ferocity of the statement took Tony by surprise and he had to remind himself that she likely didn't mean it as a slight against his abilities. She was tired and stressed beyond belief and constantly on edge with the uncertainty of Peter's condition. This was so much bigger than his ego. For his part, Tony let May's agitation roll off of him and returned to his work in earnest; negotiating the ins and out of prototype nano technology was certainly less stressful than trying to tiptoe on eggshells around the woman across from him.

Finally, finally, the waiting was over. Out of the corner of his eyes, Tony caught May quickly shooting to her feet and he tore his attention away from his calculations to see Marvin rounding the corner, eyes searching for the two. The billionaire barely held himself back from running to the nurse and demanding how the test had gone; rising purposefully slow as May all but rushed him.

"Hello again, Mrs. Parker, Mr. Stark," Marvin greeted him as the other man hurried over. "I won't keep you waiting, the news is good. Peter passed his breathing test with flying colors and they've already given the extubation order."

"Good," Tony muttered to himself, an airy sigh of relief expelling some of his tension. "That's good."

"Thank God," May whispered. "He's improving?

Marvin smiled slightly at the harried figure in front of him, "yes he is and we'll continue monitoring Peter to make sure that everything continues to improve. Dr. Evans would like to meet with you and Mr. Stark to discuss the next steps of his treatment plan, he can tell you more then."

"Of course," May replied. She paused for a minute before continuing, "Peter's going to be okay, right?"

"It's a bit early for a long term prognosis, but he is stabilizing remarkably well." The nurse cleared his throat suggestively before continuing, "Dr. Evans will be able to better answer your questions. If you just have a seat, I'm sure he'll be with you soon."

Tony sighed in frustration, turning from the nurse to stalk back to his seat. As much as he was used to dealing with medical professionals in his line of work, the waiting and uncertainty never got any less maddening. He tugged slightly at his shirt cuffs, trying to use his nervous energy to straighten the wrinkles and creases out before giving up and cuffing them to his elbows. Without another word to an equally silent May, Tony threw himself back into his work.

They waited in silence for nearly two hours, too absorbed in their own thoughts and emotions to acknowledge one another. Happy paced back and forth between the waiting room and Peter's room, thoroughly annoying the night shift and housekeepers. May vacillated between reading a well worn novel and staring off into space with a vacant expression. Tony couldn't tell if she was just tired or if the situation was too much and she needed the time to withdraw into herself. For his part, Tony was loathe to disturb the silence and continued to work on improvements to Peter's AI, hoping that he could present it as a present when the kid was finally back on his feet and ready to fight crime again with that same over-exuberant spirit that the billionaire hated to love.

"I was hoping to find you here," Dr. Evans voice finally broke their silence. Tony looked up to see the doctor taking up the majority of the doorway into the waiting room, a laptop tucked under one muscular arm. "If you wouldn't mind following me, I have some updates for you."

The doctor led Tony and May back to the Family Meeting Room once more. They were ushered in quickly before the door snapped shut behind them and the doctor took a seat at the round table. He cleared his throat and indicated the chairs opposite him, waiting for the two to get situated before opening his laptop.

"Alright, I know that your going to ask about transferring Mr. Parker, so let me head you off," the doctor began, typing away on the laptop as he spoke. "His oxygen sats, heart rate, and blood pressure have all remained stable since extubating. We have him on high oxygen flow therapy and noninvasive ventilation to assist with keeping his vitals in the green while the pulmonary contusion heals."

The doctor faltered for a minute at the blank looks on May and Tony's faces before continuing, "now I know this is technical and I would spare you the fine details. But I mention this because I want to stress that there are risks to moving Peter right now. Ideally we would continue to monitor him for the next 48 hours to ensure that there aren't any complications. At the very least, I would like to hold him until he can maintain good oxygen saturation on a lower flow-"

"I'm sensing a but coming," Tony interrupted hopefully.

The doctor's returning glare was withering, "however, Mr. Parker is demonstrating a truly remarkable rate of healing. Since the last CT scan we took, the pulmonary contusion already shows signs of healing and some of the inflammation has gone down. His spleen is recovering nicely as well. That's one hell of a kid you got there," Dr. Evans finished with a wry smile.

May cleared her throat, "does that mean you'll be approving a transfer?"

Dr. Evans turned his attention to the woman, "I would like to proceed with a transfer as soon as we can clear up the last of the paperwork. We have done as much as is in our power, but his metabolic rate has been difficult to keep up with and our sedatives and analgesics are not as effective as we would like. The few times he's come out of deep sedation, which has been a battle in and of itself to maintain, he has been agitated and combative. Ideally, we would prefer to continue treating him at this facility until the risk of physiological alterations that may adversely affect his prognosis is lesser, but his physiology has really thrown us a curveball and kept all of his bedside providers on their toes. His recovery would be much better suited in a facility that is conducive to his unique needs and with a medical team that is familiar with enhanced individuals."

Tony released the tense breath he had been holding and clapped his hands together, "Alright, what do we need to sign?"

"I'll have a patient advocate come and explain the paperwork and process to you. For now, do you have any other questions for me?" Dr. Evans asked.

"You told me earlier this morning that Peter's brain was swelling. Has there been any change or improvement?" May asked tentatively.

"There was a small elevation in his intracranial pressure early this morning, but it was quickly decreased through noninvasive treatment and did not require osmotherapy," Dr. Evans began, mechanically running through Peter's chart. He barely paused to consult something on his screen before starting again, "There hasn't been an increase in pressure since and his ICP was stable for several hours before we conducted his spontaneous breathing test."

May breathed a sigh of relief, a hand hovering over her chest. "Do you think he is still in danger?"

"To be frank, this is another reason why I would like to get him moved over to a more specialized facility. His agitation and increased metabolism consume more oxygen, which in turn means there is less oxygenated blood traveling to his brain. Paired with the fact that his bruised lung is making it difficult for him to take in enough oxygen, there is a risk of Mr. Parker suffering a more serious rise in pressure. Treating a traumatic brain injury on its own is a complex balance of many factors and with his unknown physiology and other injuries, we are at a disadvantage."

Tony nodded, "okay. So what you are saying is that the best course of action for his health and identity is an immediate transfer even with the risks?"

"In an ideal world, things would be different. But for now, yes, I believe that would be for the best," Dr. Evans responded carefully, each word carrying a weight behind it. Silence blanketed the room for a moment as the doctor typed away at his laptop. After the pause had drawn out for several moments, he paused his typing to look over the screen at the two adults sat across from him, "Is there anything else I can address for you?"

Both May and Tony shook their heads and the doctor cleared his throat, "very well, I will send the patient advocate down." The man stopped to shake both of their hands briefly before hurrying away.

This time, May and Tony were not kept waiting long and before either of them had time to fully collect their thoughts, there was a wrap on the door. A young woman in a professional suit and glasses perched precariously on her nose, slipped into the room. She introduced herself as "Alyson Hunter, but you can call me Aly," with an overly perky smile before plunking a file down on the table next to May and starting in on the paperwork.

Tony eyed the small stack of papers with distaste before excusing himself to make a call. Neither women looked up at his pronouncement and the billionaire took the chance to slink from the room. While May signed her life away, the billionaire wandered the halls, turning over the plan for transferring Peter. At this point, he knew that everything was pretty much set in stone, but damn it, he could review it one last time if it made the anxiety any easier to bear.

And reviewing the transfer plan did help soothe his nerves. After all, now he had a plan, and it was definitely more than 12% of a plan, which was a hell of a lot better than what he normally pulled out of his ass. And even if something went wrong, he was confident that his team had the resources to handle it.

Now he just needed to let someone know that they were inbound. The line rang once before Pepper picked up, "Is everything okay, Tony?"

"Yeah, everything's fine, the kid is still holding in there," the man began. "I just wanted to let you know that we'll be leaving for the compound within the hour. May is finishing the transfer paperwork with the doctor right now."

"That's great," Pepper breathed a sigh of relief that crackled through the phone's speakers. "I'm assuming Helen has already received the order, but I'll double check just in case. We'll be ready to meet you. How's May holding up?"

"About as well as can be expected. She's exhausted and still in shock, but she's keeping it together." Tony paused, looking around him to ensure that no one else was in the waiting room. "I'll just be glad to get out of Washington, this city is nothing but trouble and politics."

Pepper laughed slightly and Tony could just imagine the slight quirk of her lips that she was probably hiding behind a dainty hand. There was a beat of silence before his fiance spoke again, "How are you holding up?"

"I'll be better once I can get Peter safely to New York and away from prying eyes," Tony huffed in exasperation.

"Peter's a good kid," Pepper said. "And I'm glad you've given him an internship."

The billionaire listened as she paused on the other end. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear the 'but' that was on the tip of her tongue.

"I just didn't realize how invested you were in his personal life. I thought your working relationship was more on the professional side." Pepper chose her words carefully.

Tony was immensely grateful that she hadn't outed Peter as Spiderman on an open line. "Yeah, I know what I told you before."

Pepper sighed, "I just hadn't realized how much he means to you."

"To be honest, Pep, I don't think I've fully realized it either." Tony wished his voice didn't sounds quite so old, so tired.

"Oh, Tony," he couldn't decide if Pepper was fond or resigned. "I'm glad that you're thinking about this."

"Yeah," Tony shook his head, forgetting for a moment that Pepper couldn't see him. "Look, I've got to get back to the kid. They're prepping him for transport. I'll see you at the compound, okay?"

"I'm here for you," she promised.

Tony smiled slightly to himself, "I promise we'll talk more then."

He disconnected the call and continued to wander, not even noticing when his absent mind carried him back to the ICU floor.

Happy intercepted him almost immediately at the elevator. "They've moved the kid from his room," the man gestured down to where May hovered anxiously outside Peter's now empty room. "She wants to stay until he leaves for the airfield, I've got the car ready for whenever she gives the go ahead."

Tony nodded before striding past his exhausted friend to stop in front of the exhausted charge nurse at his station. He glanced down at the almost sickly pale man before clearing his throat, "Peter Parker was being prepped for transport. I was hoping you could tell me if there is an ETA on his departure?"

"Give me just one minute to pull his chart," the nurse typed away quickly, eyes scanning the screen in front of him before looking back up at Tony. "And you really are Tony Stark?"

"In the flesh," Tony's tone held an edge of annoyance, a warning for the nurse not to press his luck.

"Right," the nurse glanced back down at his monitor nervously. "It looks like the ambulance is scheduled to take Mr. Parker to the airfield in the next half hour. I won't be able to tell you more until Peter's bedside provider comes back."

"Mrs. Parker, Mr. Stark," the voice of Dr. Evans called out not a moment after the charge nurse had finished his sentence.

Tony and May both converged on the blonde man striding down the hall, "Mr. Parker just departed without a hitch. All the paperwork is taken care of and I have both of your contact information in case the hospital needs to follow up with you further. I wish you luck on Peter's next leg of the journey."

Before the doctor could turn to leave again, Tony reached out to pull him aside. "Just a moment, doc."

Dr. Evans obligingly followed Tony, "what can I help you with, Mr. Stark?"

"As Peter's attending surgeon, I know you didn't have to personally keep us updated and take such an interest in his case," Tony paused and glanced over his shoulder as a door farther down the hall closed and the day shift nurse bustled past. "I just want you to know that I see what you did and I appreciate it."

"Of course," Dr. Evans responded quickly. "I also took the liberty of forwarding the medical records to a Dr. Helen Cho and her team. I'll do what I can to mitigate suspicion on this end. Just do me a favor, yeah? Take care of that kid, he's more special than probably either of us know."

"I plan to," Tony shook the doctor's hand and let the man go on his way, watching until he turned the corner and disappeared from view. It figured, Tony mused to himself,  
even while unconscious that damn kid still managed to wrap everyone in the ICU around his finger. Heaven help him when Peter finally finished puberty, the world wouldn't know what to do.

Tony retraced his steps to where Happy had joined May in front of the nurse's station. He slowed down just enough to urge them along, "alright people, you heard the doc, let's get the hell out of Dodge."

With an overly agitated billionaire in the lead, they piled into the town car and peeled out of the parking lot. The beltway was mostly clear in the wake of the bombing and Tony silently thanked whatever traffic deity was watching over their town car as they swung north towards Baltimore. An exhausted tension permeated their cramped space, and so Tony contented himself with watching the Maryland countryside roll past his window, counting down the miles to the airport.

"Boss, we're here," Happy's firm hand was on his shoulder and Tony jerked upright, surprised that he had fallen asleep.

The billionaire clambered out of the car, shielding his eyes against the morning sun to see the jet in front of him. Happy retrieved their few bags from the trunk and Tony left him to the job, ushering a catatonic May aboard the jet. She was crying softly again, doing nothing to stop the silent tears that tracked down her already puffy cheeks. Tony was too mentally and physically exhausted to offer much more than a sympathetic half smile. He left the woman to find a suitable seat before sinking into his favourite leather couch.

After a few moments that seemed to stretch impossibly into hours, Happy and the flight crew clambered aboard. While one stewardess and the pilot secured the doors and ran through their pre-flight check, another bustled around the cabin attending to the passengers. May was soon bundled into one of the softest blankets and pillow sets that Tony kept for relaxation after long and often boring meetings that still managed to drag him halfway across the country to deal with. A cold beer was placed into Happy's plaintive hand and even at the early hour of the morning, Tony wasn't going to begrudge him the small comfort. For himself, he managed a small tonic water, grimacing slightly as the bitter drink washed down the aftertaste of the hospital's burnt coffee.

The man turned to the window, watching the ground slowly roll by as they taxied to the runway. "Friday?" he asked.

"Yes, boss?" the AI responded in a quieter tone then normal.

Goddamn, he was a genius. Tony thought to himself. Volume and tone control based on the situation was easily one of the best additions to the AI that he could think of. Not only did it give his companion a more human sound and feel, but it also allowed the AI to adjust to situations in a way that complimented his many and shifting emotions and moods.

"Boss?" the AI prompted again when the billionaire didn't immediately answer.

"Make a sizable donation to the George Washington University Hospital," he instructed. Money may not solve all problems, but it sure as hell helped most. "And, uh, add a few coffee machines to that donation. Maybe like a Keurig or something easy to operate. Just anything but the swill they're trying to sell as coffee."

The AI chirped in acknowledgement, "would you like me to route this through the Stark Foundation or from your personal funds?"

"Let's go with the foundation. Oh, and while you're at it, coordinate with Pepper and whoever is running the Stark Foundation right now, I want to set up a fund to take care of the medical and funeral costs for the victims of the bombings," Tony nodded in satisfaction, that would be a good course of action. When the media inevitably got ahold of him, he could play up the fund and his experience in Afghanistan to hopefully mitigate Peter's involvement in the spotlight. Maybe, just maybe with enough work, he and the kid could get out of this situation relatively unscathed.

"I'll get right on that. Would you like me to forward the final arrangements to you for review?" asked FRIDAY.

"Do that," Tony agreed before slipping off his glasses and cutting the connection with his AI. Letting his head fall back against the rest with a morose sigh, the man leaned his weight into the chair, wiggling slightly to find a comfortable spot. Through the window, he watched the sprawling buildings of the DC metro area fade as they climbed. The landscape melted away into a blur before the man's unseeing eyes, but he continued to watch out the window even after clouds obscured his vision, his mind stretching ahead of them to the air ambulance carrying Peter. He hoped the kid would arrive safely. Before they even made it over Pennsylvania, Tony was asleep.

* * *

 **All hail the 6000 word chapter! I should probably have edited this thing down, oops. Oh well, this chapter took a ridiculously long time to write and I finally managed to connect all the sections and flesh out some bits and I'm just impatient. I might come back and edit it down or split it up some. We'll see how much free time I feel like spending on this. Hopefully this isn't too dense and you don't mind the word vomit. As one of my friends mentioned, I write a bit like David Webber in that all information is relevant information that the reader must know. At least it might make up for the wait, right?**

 **One thing's for sure, I will be happy to put the more medical side of this story behind me and move on to Peter's recovery (though I can't promise he's out of the woods yet ;) ).**

 **Again I would like to stress that I am not a trained medical professional, and everything I wrote about in this chapter is mostly a result of my research and the few medical journals I read at work while I'm on lunch. If you see anything that isn't accurate or is particularly egregious, please do let me know what's wrong and how to fix it!**

 **I'm settling into my new job pretty well (actually writing this note on my break while I ignore my massive pile of scanning that I should really get on top of before it buries my inbox). So far, it looks like this will be a great fit for me, and it has the added bonus of much less stress. I still have to argue with some patients and vendors over invoices and statements, but for the most part I don't have to deal with the customer service side as much anymore. So that's a huge win!**

 **As always, thank you for taking the time to read my story. All of your wonderful comments (which I promise I will reply to eventually!), kudos, and bookmarks really make my day.**


	7. Interlude: Midtown High AP Government

"Peter!" Ned shouted, pressed against the metro train's closed doors.

"Stay here, Peter. We'll turn around for you!" Mr. Jones yelled through the shut doors before the train pulled forward, picked up speed, and zipped into the tunnel with a rush of air.

Ned watched his friend's form grow smaller and smaller before the tunnel blocked his view and threw their surroundings into darkness. He turned to the chaperone, wide-eyed and frantic, "Can't we stop the train? I mean, we can't just leave him there!"

"I know, Ned, it'll be alright. I'll go back for him when we get to the next station and then we'll all go to lunch," Mr. Jones tried to sound soothing, but stress and annoyance colored his tone.

Ned shook his head at the chaperone. They couldn't just leave his best friend! "But Mr. Jones-"

"Mr. Leeds," The man interrupted with a cold and stern voice. "We will go back for Peter, we are not leaving him. Now, please sit down and stay out of trouble while I deal with this."

Mr. Jones gently, but firmly clasped the boy's shoulder and turned him toward one of the open metro chairs before stalking off down the center aisle to where Mrs. Andrews leaned against one of the poles, too short to reach the suspended handrails. Ned watched him go with anger clear in his tense shoulders.

"What do you mean Peter's not on the train?!" Ms. Andrew's indignant snort was loud enough for Ned to. "We have to go back for him at the next stop!"

Mr. Jones said something that was too quiet for Ned to hear, but it was obvious that whatever he had said was not reassuring the teacher. Ned had half a mind to march over to the adults and give them a piece of his mind about leaving his best friend.

"Just sit down, loser." A voice spoke lowly in Ned's ear, "it's not like he's lost in the supermarket without his mom."

Ned whirled around to come face to face with Michelle. The boy immediately stepped back and out of range of her thick book on instinct.

"It's always Penis Parker causing trouble, isn't it?" a lanky blonde boy across the aisle muttered just loud enough for them to hear, nudging the girl that sat next to him with a conspiratorial elbow. "We should just effing leave him there, no one's gonna miss him."

"James!" Cynthia, the girl he had nudged, hissed in warning.

Still facing Ned, MJ reached behind and to the side with her book before dropping it precisely on James' converse covered toes with a muted thunk. The teenager choked on a shout, hands flying to cradle his injured appendage.

"Oops," Michelle shrugged, turning around with an exaggerated expression of surprise. She bent to pick up the hardcover book, a self-satisfied smirk on her lips, "it's hot out, my fingers slipped."

"What is wrong with you?!" James cried, one hand still holding his aching foot and the other balled in an angry fist.

Mr. Jones whirled around at the commotion, staring back at the group with hellfire in his eyes. "Is there a problem, children?"

"Of course not," MJ replied quickly, tucking the book strategically under her arm. She let the silence linger for a tense moment before tacking on a sarcastic, "Sir."

The man looked at the collection of teenagers suspiciously and took one step forward before Cynthia quickly nodded in agreement. "Just an accident, Mr. Jones. We're all fine," the girl hurriedly added.

Mr. Jones' eyes narrowed and he stared at the group for a second more before returning to his conversation with Ms. Andrews. Occasionally, he glanced out of the corner of his eye at the group, as if daring them to try anything funny while he was watching.

Michelle winked at Ned, her smirk stretching a bit wider. For his part, Ned could only stare at the girl, sputtering slightly as his brain tried to catch up with everything that was going on.

"Yeah, that's getting creepy," MJ shoved past him to a pair of seats, plopping down in one and propping her legs up on the other.

After a moment, Ned finally lurched to the row of seats in front of her, sitting heavily and shrugging out of his backpack. He fished his phone out of his back pocket and scrolled through to their group chat, tapping off a quick message for Peter to get his butt back to the group and stop taking unnecessary detours.

"He always has to disappear on these trips, huh?" MJ muttered mostly to herself, glancing down at the message.

A distant boom echoed through the tunnel. Ned jerked around in his seat, curiously looking through the window dividing their car from the next. All he could see were businessmen and tourists in the other compartment looking around in alarm. The unsettling silence was pierced by the squeal of brakes as the train lurched to a sudden stop. With a cry of alarm, Ned reached over to catch himself on the edge of another seat as he went crashing to his knees, backpack flying off of the seat and clattering across the metro floor. Behind him, MJ braced herself against the back of his seat and swore profusely.

A rumble vibrated the train slightly as a second boom echoed through their tunnel, louder than the first. Still kneeling on the floor, Ned took a minute to breathe and calm his racing heart. His palms were sweaty against the plastic of the seat he was desperately holding on to.

There was a whine of static as the PA system came to life and then the operator's voice crackled through the speaker. "We do apologize for the sudden stop. It appears that there has been a malfunction with the rail. Hopefully we will have that corrected and be underway momentarily."

"Is everyone okay?" Ms. Andrews called, stumbling to her feet in the middle of the center aisle.

Ned clambered back to his feet and offered a hand to James. The teen was sprawled out on the center aisle, looking sullen and very done with this whole day, but he took the offered hand nonetheless and allowed Ned to pull him to his feet.

Ms. Andrews hurried over to them, supervising anxiously as James resumed his seat next to Cynthia. "You alright, boys?" she asked.

James nodded and winked at Cynthia before replying, "all good."

Ned flashed a double thumbs-up at his anxious teacher, "this is nothing like the Washington Monument incident."

From across the aisle, the teen boy caught MJ rolling her eyes. "It's too bad Spiderman isn't here to save our asses this time," the girl muttered under her breath, a biting edge to her tone.

Not for the first time, Ned wondered if she had figured out Peter's secret. He quickly glanced at his feet, trying to hide the blush that spread across his face. Holy frick, why was he such an open book? MJ was going to eat him alive one of these days and then move straight on to Peter. And Peter would know exactly who had sold out his secret and then come back to dig up the not even decomposed corpse of his best friend just to murder him again. Ned really needed to get some poker face tips from his dad.

Ms. Andrews sighed in relief that their group seemed to be in one piece. Seemingly reassured, the teacher turned to address the rest of the train car. "Is anyone hurt? We have first aid training and supplies if needed."

Two of the adults in the car shook their heads, not bothering to glance up from their phones. A tall man in the back dressed in an immaculate suit and tie simply shrugged, "this happens all the time lady, it's probably another construction mishap."

They sat in relative silence for several minutes. Ned bounced nervously in his seat, toying with his phone despite knowing that he didn't have any service stuck below ground. His mind kept thinking back to Peter all alone at the other station. Rationally, he knew that the teen was more than capable of taking care of himself. Whatever was going on was probably nothing compared to the danger he dealt with as Spiderman. But rationality had never done anything for his anxiety and Ned couldn't stop his mind from inventing increasingly more dangerous and dramatic situations.

Michelle leaned back against the window, drawing her feet up onto the seat next to her and propping her open book on her knees. She seemed to block the whole world out as she flipped through the pages, eyes scanning across countless words. Which is why Ned was taken almost completely by surprise when she minutely leaned to over to whisper at him, "He's fine, Ned, because if he's not I will necromance his ass just so we can both beat some sense into it."

Ned snorted at the image, his anxiety briefly chased away by amusement. "Kinky," he quipped back.

The larger boy could feel MJ's glare through the back of his skull and ducked just in time to avoid getting clouted upside the head by her heavy tome. He wasn't fast enough to completely dodge it, however, and the book clipped the brim of his hat, sending it sailing forward.

"Ms. Jones!" Mrs. Haithcock, their other chaperone, snapped in disapproval. She towered over the teens, a mass of well-built muscles and intense body language. Ned tried his best not to shrink away when she placed his fedora back in his lap and patted his shoulder. The chaperone glared again at MJ before continuing past them down the center aisle. Ned watched her retreating form from the corner of his eye, slightly surprised when she stopped at the back of the car to surreptitiously use the call box labeled 'for emergencies.' She spoke with someone on the other line for a few minutes, darting glances back to the assembled class and the commuters bunched up in the center of the car.

Ned's fingers drummed against the felt hat in his lap as he waited for something to happen. The uncertainty of their situation was driving him nuts. If it was a simple mechanical issue with the rail, shouldn't they already be on their way. Surely the operator would have told them if it was something more serious?

Finally, Mrs. Haithcock returned to whisper something in Ms. Andrews' ear. The teacher visibly paled at whatever she heard, looking shaken for a moment before steeling her features and turning to her class. She clapped her hands twice, the sharp sound echoing in their confined space. Whining static interrupted whatever the teacher had planned to say as the PA crackled to life and the voice of the operator came through slightly muffled, "sorry for the delay. We have engineers looking at the situation right now. If they give us the green light, we'll continue on into the station. If not, we're going to have to walk the rest of the way. Please take this opportunity to review the location of exits and the procedures for evacuating the train. Thank you."

"This is just great," the tall man dressed in black huffed. He paced back and forth at the other end of the car. "I don't have time for this! Goddamn piece of shit," he kicked at the closed metro doors.

"Calm down, man," a woman snapped at him, rising from her seat and adjusting a tight-fitting business skirt. When the other man looked unimpressed, she huffed, "We're all stuck here. Yelling about it isn't going to help!"

Ms. Andrews stepped into the center of the aisle, blocking the argument from Ned's view. She glanced back nervously at the bickering adults once before turning to address her students.

"Phones down!" the teacher ordered, waiting for the students to comply before continuing. "If we do get evacuated off of the metro, I want everyone to pair up and stick together. If anyone gets separated, we'll regroup at the top of the station. Please read over the emergency procedures."

James raised his hand.

"Yes, Mr. Dillon?" Ms. Andrews called, irritation clear in her face.

The teen lowered it almost timidly before blurting out, "are we still gonna have lunch?"

"I'm sure this is just some technical difficulties with the train. We may have to rearrange our lunch plans," the teacher replied, "but yes, we will get some lunch. Now, does anyone else have any questions?"

She gazed evenly over the small collection of students, before nodding in satisfaction at their subdued silence. "Pair up and wait for the operator to give us instructions.."

They waited for what felt like hours. The metro train was stuffy and the seats increasingly uncomfortable the longer they were forced to sit in them. Ms. Andrews sat up front, conversing with Mrs. Haitcock and occasionally looking over her shoulder to watch her students. Mr. Jones paced the center aisle, tense energy radiating off of him. Ned knew something had happened, he just wished that his phone would work so he could call his mom or even look up the news to see if there was any information on their situation.

Finally their wait was over. The operator's voice rang out through the car once more, "alright folks, it looks like we're going to have to hoof it. The lights on the tunnel wall indicate which side the walkway is on. Please locate the nearest exit on that side and pull the emergency door release, you will have to manually slide it open after that. Be careful when exiting the car, there is a gap between the train and the walkway. Please assist any handicapped, elderly, pregnant, or very young passengers in exiting the train. If anyone needs assistance, use the call box located at the back of your car to alert us. Once out on the walkway, wait for my instruction to start walking. Do not touch the train or the rail once you have exited the car."

The PA system clicked off and Ned looked wide-eyed at MJ. The girl shrugged slightly as if to say 'screw it' before pushing herself out of her seat. Ned followed on her heels, waiting behind Mr. Jones as the man slid open the exit doors. He helped Ms. Andrews out first before turning to the others, "alright, let's take this in twos. I'll bring up the rear."

James tried to push his way through to the front, but Mr. Andrews ignored him and instead helped Mara and Valerie, the two girls competing for the highest grade in class, out first. He reached out to MJ next, "come on, keep it moving." Ned followed right behind her.

The tunnel was even even more stuffy than the train, the air seeming to weigh heavily down on them. Ned nervously plastered himself up against the tunnel wall, trying to get as far away from the train and the electrified third rail as possible. He was continually shuffled farther along the walkway as more and more people emerged from the train all around him.

"Alright, that's everyone!" Mr. Jones called, ducking out onto the walkway after the last student.

"What about Peter?!" Ned called to the man.

Mr. Jones' jaw clenched in irritation but the man managed to answer Ned in a smooth tone, "we will go back for Mr. Parker as soon as it is safe to do so. Now please stick with your partner Mr. Leeds."

The passengers milled about for a few minutes, waiting for instructions. A beam of light roved over them and Ned stood on his tiptoes to catch a glimpse of a large man at the front of the pack holding a flashlight. He wore a neon safety vest that was hard to miss in the closed space and the teen supposed that this was the operator. The man drew himself up to his full height before speaking, "right, it's this way everyone. Stick to the walkway! If we need any help there is an emergency call station in about 500 feet."

The group set off together, tightly packed as they shuffled forward as one. It took a few minutes of coordinating, but finally the pack loosened until they were able to walk freely without the press of bodies. Ned kept one hand on the tunnel wall as they went, the concrete benough his fingers grounding him. He could feel MJ's hand on his shoulder as they pressed forward, the grip strong and insistent, squeezing occasionally in anxiety. Ned was smart enough not to comment on that fact. After what seemed like forever trapped inside the claustrophobic tunnel, Ned saw light ahead. The light continued to grow until the tunnel opened into the station and their group moved through a small gate partitioning the walkway from the rest of the platform.

The metro station was a flurry of activity. Armored police and K9 units roamed about, the dogs sniffing their way through every inch of the space. Engineers in hard hats and neon safety vests laden with equipment moved around the officers and as soon as Ned and the rest of the evacuees cleared the gate, they pushed past the group and hurriedly disappeared into the tunnel.

"Something big must have happened," MJ murmured lowly.

Ned nodded, watching the glare of the men's safety vests disappear down the tunnel they had just emerged from. He kept trying to watch even after they had past from view, not even looking at where his feet went as the press of bodies forced him to move forward again.

"Right this way folks, everything's gonna be just fine," a firm voice called out and Ned turned back to see a metro representative aand a police officer leading their group up the still escalator. Voices murmured all around and a couple people demanded to know what was going on in loud voices that the officer pointedly ignored.

"Is anyone hurt?" the officer asked instead, projecting his voice to be heard over the clamor of the several dozen worried passengers. There was a general murmur of "no" with a few people simply shaking their heads. The officer nodded in satisfaction after no one answered in the affirmative, "There are paramedics up top if anyone needs assistance. Just let me or any of the other uniforms know."

They were quickly escorted up the second set of escalators and soon Ned was left blinking in the harsh sunlight as their group finally made it outside the station. The officer led them out into what Ned recognized as Woodrow Wilson plaza from his class' visit just the day before. However, the open space and encircling arches that he had marveled at yesterday were hidden by a massive press of bodies and emergency vehicles. First responders, police, and metro officials bustled every which way, talking on radios and yelling across the plaza at each other. Ned's group was shuffled towards the center of the throng before they were finally allowed to sit on the low concrete wall at the center of the plaza. Even if he was sandwiched between MJ and Valerie, Ned was grateful to have a something to rest on after their journey through the metro tunnels. The teen stared out into space, watching the reflection of police and ambulance lights swirl in the windows of the towering Federal Triangle.

"What do you think is going on?" Valerie hissed in a low breath to the teen next to her. Ned craned over the top of her head to see that it was Damian, a loner who spent most of his time in the back of the classroom ignoring everyone and everything.

Damian shrugged thin shoulders in response, pushing a strand of sweaty pale blonde hair out of his face. He stared at his feet, trying his best to avoid eye contact with anyone around him.

"It has to be bad," Valerie continued when Damian didn't respond. "There are so many cops here."

"Oh my god!" Cynthia hissed from the other side of Damian, holding her phone tightly in both hands as she stared at the screen. "There's been an explosion!"

Damian whistled lowly, "woah. Do they know what caused it?"

"The article doesn't say," Cynthia shook her head, scrolling through a bit more before speaking again, "It only says that first responders are reporting several injuries and some structural damage to the station hindering rescue."

Ned looked over at MJ beside him, trying to see if he had heard the revelation. She looked impassive to the untrained eye, but the other teen could see where her hands clenched slightly in shock. 'Peter' she mouthed at him.

A shiver ran down Ned's spine. Please don't be Peter. Please don't be Peter, he repeated over and over in his mind as his shaking hands tried to get his phone to unlock. Peter's number was first in his frequent contacts and he held his breath as he hit the call button.

The phone line rang one, two, three, four times before going through to Peter's voicemail. "This is Peter's phone. I'm not here right now as I've likely joined Starfleet Academy, been kidnapped by Kylo Ren, or had my phone swallowed by whatever alien is invading New York this time. But if you leave your name, number, and a brief message I may stumble on the TARDIS and contact you sometime in the past, present, or future."

Ned listened through the message he had helped Peter write at two in the morning on one of their bro nights, before he was finally able to leave a message. "Hey, it's Ned. You better be alright, Peter. They just evacuated our metro and we had to walk like two miles through the metro tunnels. And now they're saying there's been an explosion. So if you get this, just call me back and let me know you aren't dead. And don't do anything stupid or I'll - I don't know - I'll like totally lie to May so she grounds you forever and you have to stay in one place and out of danger. Just, call me back. Please."

Ned hung up the call, ignoring Valerie's wide-eyed stare and MJ's calculating glare. He immediately dialed the number again, only to receive Peter's voicemail for the second time in as many minutes. After the fourth call went through with no answer, Ned gave up and pulled up his news app instead, scrolling through frantically for anything that would tell him more of what was going on. Finally a live feed popped up detailing everything the media knew about the explosion thus far. Bombing in DC Labeled Terrorism was the bold line at the top of the feed, the website reporting that Metro PD had identified bomb fragments on site and were treating the explosion as a terrorist attack. Ned's stomach fell out and he turned the phone towards MJ with a shaky hand. He looked up at her, not sure if he was hoping for reassurance or to see his own terror reflected in her eyes so he knew that he wasn't blowing this whole thing out of proportion.

"Terrorism?" MJ asked quietly. Her eyes were wide and her mouth set in a firm line, as if Ned had just confirmed what she was secretly thinking.

"Oh my god. That's what the booms were! Someone tried to blow us up!" Mara gasped frantically from MJ's other side. She leaned over to whisper in the ear of the red-haired, freckle-faced girl next to her. Ned could just barely hear Laura gasp at Mara's message before the she turned to James next to her and passed along the message. Great, Ned thought to himself, they were stuck in the middle of potentially dangerous situation playing telephone about what was going on. By the time the message made it all the way through their class, he wouldn't be surprised if someone was already trying to pin it on ISIS, Hydra, or some obscure alien race that was bent on their destruction.

Ms. Andrews hurried through their group, interrupting the chattering students as she clapped for their attention. "Listen up, everyone! So far what the officers have told me is that there was a bombing at the Smithsonian metro station, at this point I don't know anything more. Please call your parents or guardians and let them know you're okay. Then get on Facebook or twitter, or whatever social media you use and mark yourself safe."

She waited for a moment while they all went for their phones before whipping out her own. Ned could just barely hear her talking with the principal over the line.

The teenager sighed at the phone in his hand. He had to make the call, if not his mother was likely going to fly all the way down to DC just to find him and murder him for making her worry. With his hat in hand, Ned scrolled through the phone to her contact number, his thumb hovering over the call button. Somehow, it felt like calling her would make this whole situation real and Ned wasn't sure he could handle that right now. He fingered his hat, hoping to draw some confidence from the felted fedora. Peter had helped him pick it out because the other teen thought it made him look 'dapper.' It was Ned's favorite hat and he wore it when he wanted either the cool factor or the confidence boost. Right now, however, his favorite article of clothing was doing nothing to quell his rising terror. With his heart in his throat, he hit call. "Mom?" Ned asked tentatively as soon as someone picked up the other line.

There was a stifled gasp, "Ned, thank god you're alright! I've been calling the school ever since the news hit and no one would tell me anything. Are you hurt?"

"No," the teenager quickly replied. "Mom, it's Peter. We got separated. The last I saw him was in the station that blew up. Mom, he's not picking up any of my calls or responding to any of my texts and the stupid cops won't tell anyone what's going on and I don't know what to do!" Ned knew he was panicking and crying but he was scared and his best friend was gone and his hat wasn't making him feel any better.

"Ned, honey, you have to breathe!" his mother's concerned voice lowered into a soothing tone. "You can't help Peter if you're freaking out."

It took a few minutes and lots of encouragement on his mother's part, but eventually Ned managed to calm down. His mother waited a few more minutes for him to become mostly coherent again before urging to "stay with your teacher, okay Ned? I'm sure Peter is going to be fine, but if he is hurt, the first responders are going to be able to help him a lot more than you can."

Ned sniffled, "okay."

"Just focus on keeping yourself safe," his mother told him.

Mr. Jones walked through the group of students, signaling those still on the phone to wrap it up. Ned sighed, "mom, I gotta go, it looks like they're getting ready to move us."

"Keep your phone on and call me as soon as you get somewhere safe," the anxiety in his mother's tone was obvious even to Ned's normally oblivious ears. "I'll call you again in an hour if I don't hear from you."

"I'll be fine, mom," the teenager assured, already pulling the phone away from his face. "I love you, bye."

He glanced up to see MJ looking uneasily at an officer that had joined Ms. Andrews in front of their class. The officer was short and stocky with salt and pepper hair pulled back from her weathered face in a tight braid. Once the teens were largely done with their calls, Ms. Andrews stepped closer to them. "Detective Garcia would like to ask you a few questions about what's happened."

"Yes, thank you," the detective faced the teens as she spoke, thumbs hooked into her belt. "I just have a few questions for you regarding what you might have seen before you got on the metro today."

The detective paused for a moment to gauge their reactions, but was met with the blank looks of confusion. She sighed, retrieving a notebook from her pocket before adding, "I know this has all been scary for you, but any information you have about what was going on might help with our investigation. Even the little details can often make or break a case. Now, do any of you remember seeing any suspicious packages lying around?"

The class mostly shook their heads no. Detective Garcia nodded in understanding before continuing, "this could also include briefcases, backpacks, larger purses, or duffel bags."

Mara piped up after a moment, "there was a red backpack leaning against one of the benches. I didn't seen anyone near it."

The detective nodded, flipping to a new page in her notebook, "good. Do you remember how far the bench was from the escalator?"

Mara thought for a moment, her eyes roaming back and forth as if she was looking at the metro stop and not the crowded plaza. "It was mid-way between the escalator and end of the platform."

"Was there anything notable about the backpack. Do you know if it had any patches or identifying marks or information?" Detective Garcia asked.

Mara looked at her feet for a moment before replying, "it was just a normal backpack."

"Did it look new or old?" the detective tapped her mouth with one end of her pencil as she stared at the notes in her book.

"It was dirty, but that's all I remember," Mara answered.

Detective Garcia jotted down some notes before asking, "how about anyone suspicious looking? People who were lingering on the platform without getting on a metro? Anyone looking overly agitated or nervous? Maybe someone who was trying too hard to blend in or go undetected?"

Several of the teens shook their heads, MJ shrugged, and Mara murmured a low, "I don't think so, it's hard to remember."

The detective paused for a minute, pencil still poised over her notebook. She squatted down to meet Mara's eye. "This would be someone who might not look odd, but would have left an impression on you."

"There was one guy," MJ piped up. Ned looked over his shoulder at her, eyebrows raised in surprise. The girl shrugged slightly at him before turning back to the detective. "He was tall, white, muscular, and had a buzz cut. I remembered him because he was talking on his phone to someone about making meatloaf, but his body language was tense and he kept looking around him as if waiting for someone."

"Good, that's good," Detective Garcia mumbled as she scrawled down MJ's description. "Did anyone else jump out at you?"

"No," MJ shook her head, looking down at her hands.

"Alright, thank you. I have the contact information for your teacher in case we have any other questions pertaining to our investigation," the detective fished around her pocket for a moment before pulling out a small stack of cards. "This is my business card. Please don't hesitate to call if you remember anything."

"Thank you, Detective Garcia," Ms. Andrews was at the officer's elbow, leading the woman away from their group. "If we are free to go I would like to get my students back to their hotel."

The rest of their conversation was lost as the two women disappeared into the crowded plaza. After a moment, Ms. Andrews beckoned to Mr. Jones and Mrs. Haithcock. Ned craned his head over Valerie to watch their conversation.

"We're going to have to walk," Ms. Andrews finally muttered to the other chaperones when they had come to join her.

"What!" Mr. Jones sputtered. "The hotel is over two miles from here! Everyone is tired and hungry and scared. Can't we find another way?"

Mrs. Haithcock shook her head, gesturing out at the surrounding streets. "It's gridlocked out there with the emergency response and the metro is shut down. How else are we going to get back?"

Ms. Andrews nodded, "it's already late. The sooner we can get going, the sooner we can get the kids to the hotel. Maybe stop and get something to eat on the way if they get tired?"

"What about Mr. Parker?" Mr. Jones all but whispered, forcing Ned to lean closer in order to hear.

"There's been no word. From what I can figure, most of the victims haven't been positively identified yet and they are still working on pulling people out," Mrs. Haithcock answered. "If he stayed on the platform like he was told to, the odds probably aren't great."

Ms. Andrews shook her head vehemently, "no, until I hear otherwise I'm not giving up on him! I'm still calling around to hospitals in the area and if I don't hear anything, I'll try again in another hour. For right now, you two get the students away from here and I'll wait for word on Peter."

"Sounds like a plan," Mrs. Haithcock immediately agreed over the lowered mutterings of Mr. Jones. "I'll get everyone ready to go."

The chaperone made quick work of rounding up their class. After the chaos and uncertainty of the past few hours, the students were more than ready to leave the crowded plaza. They were organized back into pairs while Ms. Andrews spoke with another officer.

"Alright, let's go." Mr. Jones announced, walking to the front of the group. He got them moving through the crowd, but with the press of bodies on either side he was unable to stop Ned from peeling away from the class and making a beeline for Ms. Andrews. "Come back, Mr. Leeds!"

Ned ignored Mr. Jones' shouts, instead scampering over to Ms. Andrews. The teacher looked up in surprise as the teen came to a stop in front of her panting slightly from exertion and desperation.

"We can't leave!" Ned stomped insistently at his teacher, feeling younger than his 15 years as he begged for a friend's life. "Peter is still missing. We have to stay until we find him!"

"Oh Ned, dear, it's going to be okay. Just go back with the others, I'm not leaving until they tell me where Peter is," Ms. Andrews promised. "Detective Garcia is going to let me stay in the friends and family holding area until we have word on Peter. And as soon as I find something out, I'll let you know. But I need you to stick with your class, can you do that for me?"

"But-" Ned opened his mouth to argue.

"Promise me, Ned!" Ms. Andrews commanded, reminding Ned why she was the authority figure in this situation.

Ned nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He reluctantly let Mrs. Haithcock drag him back to the group, ignoring MJ's questioning look and the other students chatter. Slowly, the class made spilled out onto the streets surrounding the plaza.

They had only been walking for about half a mile when Mr. Jones directed them into a Shake Shack for a very delayed lunch. Though their group was tired, they were grateful to finally get something to eat. The teens spread out over several tables, chattering quietly in the unusually subdued atmosphere. A TV in the corner played the local news coverage of the bombing and despite his best efforts, Ned could not tear his eyes away from the broadcast. News crews on the ground focused on the recovery effort as the last of the victims were being brought out by EMTs for treatment.

For kids who got their news in soundbites and headlines, watching the live coverage play out over the TV set was surreal. It was hard to imagine that just a few hours ago, they had lounged on the grounds that were now the scene of such chaos.

"Oh my god!" Lacey yelled, pointing at the TV screen. "It's Iron Man!"

Ned's eyes zeroed in on the flash of red and gold as Iron Man flew into the wreckage of the Smithsonian metro station. The hero was no more than a blur of urgency on the camera and the anchorman stuttered slightly in surprise as he announced that Iron Man had joined the fray. The whole restaurant seemed to wait with baited breath as they watched the coverage. Ned chewed nervously on the inside of his cheek wondering if Iron Man was here for Peter or if the terror attack really was Hydra. Nearly 20 minutes passed before the red and gold armor emerged from the station, a lanky body covered in dust and blood cradled in his arms.

"Peter," MJ breathed in shock, a hand tightly gripping Ned's bicep in an attempt to steady herself.

Ned didn't even notice MJ's reaction, instead watching intently as the camera stayed trained on where the first responders were taking an unresponsive Peter from Iron Man's grasp. The voice of the anchorman played over the scene as he updated the viewers on the latest developments and confirmed fatalities. Ned choked back a hysterical sob as the camera panned out to show the general area and his sight of Peter was lost.

The whole situation made Ned nauseous. Not knowing whether his best friend was alive or dead didn't help either. He pushed his burger towards James, his appetite gone. The teen sat in a state of shock, ignoring the subdued chatter around him and MJ's increasingly pointed looks. Ned's fingers acted on autopilot as he left message after message for Peter, each one growing more frantic as he begged for the other teen to just be alive and call him back. But every time his messages went unanswered. So Ned waited and waited, long after MJ's milkshake had melted and the rest of his class had finished their food. He waited with his phone in one hand as they trudged back to their hotel, ignoring his mother's calls. He waited even after Ms. Andrews caught up with them, face puffy from crying and trying her best not to break down in front of her class. And Ned was still waiting when James and Mr. Andrews bundled him into bed still fully clothed. But Peter never responded.

So Ned waited, staring at the ceiling to avoid having to look at the empty bed next to him. He wanted so badly to cry, just to breakdown and let all of his fear and uncertainty out. But he couldn't, not until he knew one way or another what had happened to Peter. Ned waited.

* * *

So it's been a month since I last updated. Sorry. Life kinds got in the way, as it tends to do. But I have been steadily working on this chapter for the last little while and finally managed to tie everything together. So I thought I might as well just throw this much deliberated chapter at you while I finish the next one.

Originally, I was not going to work on a chapter that focused on Ned since I had planned to only focus on Tony and Peter's POVs (originally this story was supposed to have been a two-shot, but look at us now). Hopefully you enjoy this brief break from Peter's drama as we get to look at how the class is coping with the bombing from their outside perspective.

Also, can I say that I was homeschooled k-12 and was never in a classroom setting before college? Because I have no clue how to write teenagers. And, I mean, I'm not that older than a typical highschooler, but I still have absolutely no clue what normal teenagers are like. My high school years consisted of studying latin in my living room and going to church 3 times a week (I kinda grew up on the outskirts of a far-right Christian cult. It was special). Anywho, this is just a disclaimer so you know where I'm coming from in trying to write teenagers in general.

As always, thank you to everyone who has commented, left kudos, bookmarked, or just enjoyed this story in general! You guys are awesome and I really appreciate it!


	8. Because I could not stop for death

When Peter first came back to himself, it felt like there was an elephant on his chest. Voices surrounded him, but they seemed to filter down from a great distance away. Or maybe he was stuck back in the lake that Vulture had dropped him in last fall. It certainly felt like his brain and ears were waterlogged. Wherever he was, all of his senses seemed to hone in on the immense pressure in his chest and the flare of pain throughout his body, leaving the insistent voices to the periphery of his mind. Peter's throat felt tight and sore and his mouth was uncomfortably dry as if he had taken a 12 hour nap with it open.

The voices grew more insistent, pushing against his sensitive hearing. "Cough now, Peter," one of the voices commanded in a suddenly clear tone.

There was a pause and then his throat was being ripped out. Peter retched at the feeling of something foreign being forcefully removed from inside of him and tried to cough, inhale, and cry all at once. He fought against the fire and the hands holding him down for a moment before his screaming senses overwhelmed his brain and he fell headlong into darkness.

One moment, Peter was swimming through murky thoughts and clouded senses; the next his body and mind came screaming back to reality. There was a dull burning in his chest and limbs, but he felt an odd fuzziness around the edges of his body. A deep heaviness in his chest weighed him down and kept him from even thinking of sitting upright, but the pressure from before had finally begun to ease.

"Peter?" a deep voice asked.

Pain flared across his chest and Peter groaned in response. There was a hand on his face and one of his eyelids, a gentle but insistent pressure. He hissed this time and tried to shrug out of the hold on his head. A hand was placed in his lax one, "squeeze my hand."

Confused by the command, the boy nevertheless complied. His fingers curled around the ones in his grasp. He was surprised at the amount of energy it took to complete such a small task.

"Good," the voice praised, "now let go."

Peter's hand fell limp again. His head lolled from side to side as his body fought desperately against the cloying drowsiness that tugged insistently at his mind. Vaguely, he could feel his legs and arms twitching about him.

"GCS of 10, tachycardic at 140. How in the hell is this kid fighting the sedative?" the deep voice spoke lowly at his side.

Blocks butted against his ears, forcing his lolling head to stay stationary. The feeling of being trapped overwhelmed Peter. Whatever he was laying on jostled and swayed. An unholy fire stabbed through him at the movement, chasing away the fuzziness around his edges. Peter's foggy brain screamed danger! at him and something in the back of his mind urged him to run as far away from these probing fingers and invasive pain as possible. Hands held his shoulders steady and another adjusted straps that Peter could just now feel around his body. The boy bucked weakly, bending limbs and trying to twist onto his side. Why was he being tied down? What was going on? The straps strained around his struggles and he moaned again as they scraped against his bandaged left side and arm. He tried to bend his knees as his legs twitched from the onslaught of pain.

A second voice cut in, "push 2mg midazolam IV." There was a growling edge to the tone that intimidated Peter even in his mostly unaware state.

"What? He's already had a propofol infusion. Any more and we're looking at extubation failure," the first voice shot back.

"Just push it!" the growling voice urged. "If he keeps this up, he's going to open his incisions. The last thing this kids needs is a wound dehiscence."

Peter felt himself swaying again, music drifted to his ears, whispering voices that sounded suspiciously like an overly sinister version of The Nutcracker Suite filled his head. Despite the soreness in his throat and the oxygen mask clasped to his face, the teen started humming. He tried to match the rhythm of the whispers, but he had never been musically gifted and instead a long, continuous drone issued from the back of his throat. Nevertheless, the boy smiled at his contribution, trying to bob his head in time to the music in his brain, heedless of the blocks that kept his head from moving.

"This looks like delirium," a third voice cut in. "Do you agree?"

The growling voice hemmed for a tense minute before giving in, "Right, right. You're right. Push 3mg Haloperidol Lactate IV."

"Pushing haldol," the first voice responded.

Peter's barely contained thrashing continued for another horrifying minute before the boy began to feel the fuzziness return to the edges of his body. Slowly, his tense muscles relaxed and his thrashing subsided into intermittent twitching. He exhaled an exhausted sigh, pulse calming in his ears and the grip of panic loosening from his chest. The music faded away and the boy allowed fuzziness to surround him in a protective cocoon, his world oddly quiet.

"It's okay, you can go to sleep now Peter," a comforting voice soothed over the frenetic movement his brain could finally sense around him. "We're taking you home."

He drifted for a while, listening to the voices around him before blinking into sleep. Maybe he'd feel better with a nap.

The next time he woke up, it was more gradual, almost like a lazy Sunday morning. Sunlight streamed through a window on his right, dimly illuminating the otherwise dark room. There were monitors around him and he could vaguely hear the gentle buzz of electricity in the vitals display above his head, but other than that the room was startling quiet. The blanket draped over him was soft and didn't feel as torturous against his raw skin and jangled nerves as he would have expected. Peter was sure he was in some type of medical facility. This place, however, was unlike any of his previous experiences with hospitals. Everything seemed to be turned down, almost dampened, just for his senses. The boy blinked in confusion.

A nurse clad in light blue scrubs filled his vision suddenly as they fiddled with something above his head. Peter could feel the medication pumping through his body and was suddenly very aware of a foreign thing sitting under the skin of his neck. He tried to reach up and pull it out, but his hand only flopped slightly on the bed.

"Kid?" a voice called from across the room, the noise blaring through the quiet. Peter recognized the voice as Happy. "I need you to stay awake just a little bit longer."

Peter's head lolled towards him and he blinked a few times, taking in where Happy stood at the doorway to his room, already calling out to FRIDAY. He tried to say something in return, thought better of it, and fell asleep before Happy could even finish alerting the AI. Peter slept for what felt like an eternity but also a span of just seconds. Pain stabbed in and out of his haze and, for once, he was spared of dreams.

Consciousness returned quickly and violently. Everything hurt and, for a moment, Peter wasn't sure which direction was up. His sense were muddled and every nerve ending he had seemed to be screaming for attention. He moaned drunkenly, bucking the soft thing beneath him.

"It's okay, Peter," a voice next to him assured. The boy tried to focus on the vaguely light blue shape, but his eyes were tired and kept slipping shut without his permission.

"We're giving you something for the pain, it was made just for you," a female doctor informed him. Peter blinked at her a bit in question; she just patted his arm in answer.

He felt the slightly uncomfortable burn of medication in his neck before everything felt heavy again, almost as if a weighted blanket had been draped over his pain. He drifted for what may have been years or just minutes. Time didn't seem like a very important concept for him to grasp.

"Hi, honey." May's voice filtered through his semi-conscious state. "I know you're working on waking up, but I want you to take your time. No one's going anywhere, we're here for you."

A hand smoothed back his hair, pushing it away from his forehead and tucking it behind his ears. Peter leaned into the touch, reveling in the warmth and comfort it brought. Half of him had a mind to fall back asleep, but the other half wanted to see May. He wanted to tell her that he had survived and was little banged up, but otherwise alright. He also wanted, and perhaps selfishly so, for his aunt to hold him and chase his fear and pain away. Peter turned his face into May's hand, inhaling the sandalwood scent of her favorite lotion. His lashes fluttered against her fingers as he opened bleary eyes.

"Hi," he hummed through his dry throat.

May's smile stretched tear-stained cheeks, her tired eyes softening in fondness and relief. "There's my handsome man," her thumb stroked his cheek fondly. Back and forth, back and forth, a soothing motion that nearly lulled him back to sleep. He let himself drift for a while before a thought crawled across his foggy mind.

Peter turned his head from May's hand to look her in the eye. "Ned, MJ, my class?" his voice was raspy and sore from disuse, but urgency pushed through his discomfort.

May carefully propped his head up on his pillow and placed a bent straw next to his mouth. Peter obediently sucked at it and was rewarded with heavenly, if lukewarm, water.

"Shh, it's okay, everyone is fine. No one else in your class was hurt," May assured him as she placed the cup back on a cart near his bed. Her hand returned to rub circles in his shoulder. "When you're feeling a bit better, why don't we have them over?"

Peter nodded, "yeah."

They sat in a companionable silence. May stroked his hair and Peter lay content for a while. His pain was less and his heart was full. Stress, fear, and panic niggled at the back of his mind, but for now he shoved them away to enjoy a moment of peace. He had all the time in the world to deal with his negative emotions later. Right now, however, he wanted to sleep again.

The next time Peter awoke, it was dark outside his window. The boy groaned at the fuzziness around his extremities and the floating feeling in his head. He was getting really tired of this yo-yoing relationship with consciousness.

"You're awake," a voice said to his right side, sounding slightly apprehensive but also surprised.

Peter wanted to say something clever like the jury is still out on that one or how do you know you aren't asleep and this is all a mutual dream . But his throat was scratchy, his tongue swollen, and his mouth dry as a bone. He settled on groaning lowly, shrinking away from the burn of pain that cut through what must have been some pretty serious painkillers.

"Shit, you probably need water. Right? That's a thing that people in hospitals get," the voice sounded unsure and uptight, rambling slightly to cover the insecurity. There was some clanking off to his right and Peter turned to see the back and tousled hair of a man as he fumbled around a cart next to Peter's bedside.

"Missa Stawk," Peter managed to work the name around his two-sizes-too-big tongue. The other man didn't reply, settling for holding a cup of water triumphantly to Peter's lips. The teen sucked at the straw for a bit, relishing the feel of water on his abused throat.

After several moments of silence that threatened to stretch into a small eternity, Peter cleared his throat and tried to speak again. "Wha' happnd to me?"

"Look, kid. I'm really not good at this kind of thing," Tony sighed heavily and scrubbed a hand through his goatee. "Just, um, what do you want to know?"

Peter gestured vaguely with his left hand, hissing as something in his elbow pulled painfully. "I dunno, everything?"

"Right," Tony sat back down in the chair Peter only now noticed before clearing his voice. "You were on a field trip to DC and there was an explosion. You were injured and trapped in the rubble, but managed to call me. Which, by the way, I'll have you know was due to that Stark Phone upgrade I 'forced' on you as you so put it last month. You're welcome."

Peter just blinked up at the man next to him, eyes owlish and face tired. The boy wasn't sure where Tony was going with this or what he was trying to dance around, but the threat of memories was in the back of his mind and he wasn't sure he wanted to press the issue.

"Anyway," Tony cleared his voice, "I got your call and flew down to dig you out. We got you some medical attention and bada-bing bada-boom here we are."

An impression of pain and helplessness flashed across Peter's mind and he sucked in a breath, feeling phantom memories surround him. That's right, he had been trapped. He remembered the press of rubble and his desperation, but concrete memories still eluded him. It had been bad, that much he was sure of. "How bad?" he asked.

"Look, Peter, it's late and I know you don't want to sleep, but you really need all the sleep you can get right now," Tony dodged the question.

Peter pulled himself more upright in bed, wincing as various injuries pulled. He tried to prop himself up with his left arm and realized his mistake almost immediately. Both his back and arm screamed in pain. Everything went white.

When Peter came back to himself, he was slumped haphazardly into the mountain of pillows behind him. His head was cradled in a large hand and a body leaned over him. Peter blinked his eyes open to see Tony yelling in the direction of the door. The sound was overwhelming at such a short distance and immediately following the shock of pain. His senses overloaded and Peter shut down again.

He could still vaguely hear what was going on around him, however, as if from a great distance away. A female voice barked urgently at someone and Tony's voice snapped back. A rush of cold followed by a cotton-headed heaviness swept over him. His senses fell back into his own body with a rush and Peter snapped his eyes open, bucking weakly against the arm that held him across his shoulders.

"No!" Peter pushed out against the female doctor and even in his weakened state, the shove was enough to send her stumbling back. He yanked the mask clasped over his nose and mouth up and off before gasping, "I have to know!"

The boy panted and coughed loudly, struggling for air with the oxygen mask propped against his forehead. Tony grabbed at the mask, bringing it back over the struggling boy's nose and mouth. Peter's right hand shot out surprisingly fast to latch onto Tony's wrist, holding the mask away from his face.

"Please, Mr. Stark," Peter managed around small coughs and stutters. "Please."

The fight seemed to leave the boy all at once and he collapsed back into the bed. Tony's hand followed him, snapping the mask back into place as Peter grew limp. "God, kid, you need to breathe!"

Peter lay on the medbay bed breathing as deeply from the mask as his sore chest and and panicked mind would allow. "How bad?" he asked again after he somewhat managed to get his breath back.

"Christ, it looked like a warzone in there, I-," Tony cut himself of. "But you already know that."

Peter looked up at the man hunched just on the edge of his vision. After a moment, Tony collected himself and leaned over so Peter could see him. "It was bad. 12 dead, 57 injured altogether."

Even in his drugged state, Peter felt the news as a blow that knocked his breath out for a minute. 12 dead? And he had lived?

"That's enough, Tony," the female doctor snapped. "He needs rest; this is too much."

Tony nodded and stood. "Sleep well, Pete."

"Wait," Peter called weakly, reaching out for the billionaire's sleeve and missing miserably. God, even his vision was way off. The boy ignored where the doctor fussed insistently at his side, checking his vitals and adjusting an infusion pump. Instead, he reached out again for Tony.

"Marie?" the boy asked almost before his mind remembered the woman who lay next to him in the rubble.

"I'm sorry, kid. She didn't make it," Tony whispered under his breath. Peter wasn't sure if it was meant for his enhanced hearing to pick up or not, but the man slipped out of the room before he could ask. Peter lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling, ignoring the doctor's questions. She was dead. 11 other people were dead. And he was alive. Why did that hurt so much?

* * *

Wow, look at that. No month long wait this time. Also, shorter chapter is short, but I sadly do not have enough free time to write and edit 6000 words in a week.

On this one, I'm using a lot of my own personal experiences with waking up in a hospital. Two years back I was hospitalized from a severe stomach virus that left me with acute dehydration to the point where I lost consciousness on standing, had a rapid heartbeat, and my blood pressure plummeted (seriously, if you think you're dehydrated, just go to the doctor. Don't try to tough it out, it doesn't end well). That was a fun day of being high on morphine and watching Star Trek reruns while I was pumped full of saline and anti-nausea medications. I also slept, a lot, partially from being sick, partially from my body trying to heal, and partially as a side effect of phenergan. So some of the descriptions are based off of my own physical reactions to medications and memories from how nurses/doctors treated me.

A side note on haldol: I have a very negative relationship with this drug as it is something I see in the clinic a lot. The outpatient clinic that I work at is set up to see patients as intake/follow-up after they've been discharged from the local psychiatric ward. The times that these patients have come in with their discharge papers listing haloperidol they are over-medicated to the point that all they can really do is sit in a chair and drool. Usually I have to get all of the relevant information from family/friends/guardians/power of attorneys or assign them a case manager to help with paperwork because they can't even hold a pen. It makes me so mad because it just seems like instead of treating the patients for their relevant diagnosis, the psychiatric unit is just over-sedating them to make the patient more manageable and then leaving all of the clean up work to the local clinics (including ours). Anyway, despite my negative associations with haldol, it is often the drug of choice to combat ICU psychosis/ICU delirium/ICU syndrome (even if the efficacy of the drug is debated, its use is still widespread).

The title of this chapter comes from an Emily Dickinson poem of the same name. "Because I couldn't stop for death" is also one of the poems in my poetry collection on death and since I have always been a fan of Dickinson's style of poetry, I figured this was as good a chapter as any to use one of her works. Plus, the title works well for this chapter.


	9. Yet if hope has flown away

Tony slipped out of Peter's room, swallowing convulsively around the suspicious lump in his throat. This was all so much harder than he had ever anticipated. Even though Peter had finally come around, Tony was beginning to realize that the kid had a long way yet to go. The physical injuries would heal in time, aided by the kid's own enhanced healing. But the emotional and psychological scars of what Peter had witnessed would take much longer to fade. Tony knew that the images of carnage, the dead kids, and an injured Peter would certainly haunt his own nightmares for months to come.

"Tony?" Pepper's soft voice called out to him.

The billionaire tore his eyes away from the closed door of Peter's room to look up at his fiance. The woman stood next to him, barefooted but still dressed in a crisp ivory suit. Her manicured hands were clasped loosely in front of her and her shoulders hunched in, an unusual posture of vulnerability for such a powerful woman.

"How did it go?" he asked, belatedly realizing that Pepper had taken over his meetings for the time being.

"Nevermind the investors," Pepper frowned, her forehead creasing into small lines that Tony frankly found adorable. "How are you? How is Peter?"

Tony shook his head, "not here."

Pepper slipped an arm around his waist and together they wandered down the hallway and out of the medbay. "What's going on?" Pepper asked as soon as the medbay doors swung closed behind them.

"Nothing," Tony breathed in slowly and pulled himself back into his familiar air of nonchalance. "It's nothing, just some more follow up with Helen. I didn't want the kid to hear."

"It's not nothing," Pepper insisted, crossing her arms and tapping a nylon covered foot against the ground.

Tony smirked at her stubbornness. There was a reason he was marrying this woman. He opened his mouth to start their familiar banter, but the fresh memory of Peter distraught to the point of injuring himself flashed across his mind and his face fell abruptly. The billionaire sucked in a breath before replying to one of the few people in this world who could see through his lies, "Peter's awake and coherent."

"Honey, that's great news!" Pepper surged forward, one hand clasped gently to Tony's arms, holding him more by her presence than physical touch.

Tony looked away. He shrugged slightly, careful not to dislodge her hand and shoved his hands into his pocket.

Pepper frowned, "I don't understand, isn't that great news?"

"He just- I-" Tony broke off, one hand fisting his hair in a fit of emotion. The familiar constriction of panic squeezed his chest and he shrugged out of Pepper's hold. For a split second, the man hovered between staying or going before deciding that it was better for everyone if he fled. After all, Peter and May needed someone stable, someone good at comforting; that certainly didn't describe him.

"Don't do this, Tony!" Pepper called after him, a hand shooting out to grab his wrist as he passed. "Peter is in a very vulnerable place right now and he needs everyone on his side that he can get. Don't push him away!"

The billionaire wrenched his arm from her grasp and fled down the hallway. He didn't look back until he was safely in the elevator at the end of the hallway. Pepper stood in the middle of the hallway, one arm still extended toward him and disappointment in her face. She snapped her arm back to her side when Tony met her eyes and turned away from him sharply, stalking back into medbay. The elevator doors closed on the view of his fiance turning away from him, but Tony didn't care. Right now, he just needed to be in a place where he could pretend all of this hadn't happened. He needed to be alone.

His lab was a comforting space. Everything in this environment was almost completely under his control. And it was familiar, a space that existed for him and him alone. Tony sank into the worn couch along one of the walls, eyeing his workbench strewn with tools and gadgets in different states of assembly. After a few minutes the man sighed and rose to his feet again. He just needed time to clear his head, that was all. He wasn't running; he wasn't. Anyways, he might as well do something productive while he moped. Tony reached for the nearest gadget - what he hoped would one day be a more versatile repulsor system - and buried his problems in work.

"Lock the door and alert me to any visitors," Tony spoke to the room at large after a few minutes.

"Of course, boss," FRIDAY responded immediately as the lab's lock audibly clicked into place. "Is there anything else you would like?"

Tony thought for a minute, pausing with his fingers still outstretched into his holographic interface, "let's review media coverage and whatever scheme Pepper and my publicist have cooked up for interviews." He set into the work, letting his mind focus on something other than nervous energy for a while.

It was early in the morning when he emerged again, feeling more in control than he had in the last 48 hours combined. He started out for his bedroom on the communal floor but the tantalizing smell of dark roast and green tea drew him to the kitchen instead. Pepper leaned against one of the counters, stirring a cup of tea absentmindedly as she waited for the pot of coffee to brew. Tony came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his face in the juncture of her neck and shoulder. She had changed into sweatpants and t-shirt, affording Tony the chance to bury his nose into the bare skin at the edge of her collar and inhale. The familiar scent of pomegranate body wash and the musk of a hard days work wrangling unruly investors and cold corporate suits into compliance filled his nostrils. "Hi," he breathed.

Pepper leaned over to kiss him just above the ear and Tony could feel the small smile tugging at her lips. "Hi you. Coffee's almost ready; Friday let me know you were coming."

The coffee pot dinged merrily as it finished brewing and Pepper broke away from his hold, whirling just enough that the hair she had pulled up into a lopsided ponytail hit him playfully upside the chin. She pulled a mug down from the tree that sat next to the beverage machines - five start of the art and one simple stovetop brewer - and poured him a cup. Tony cradled the mug between both of his hands, relishing the warmth. "I wasn't running, you know. Just needed to take care of some things."

"I know, Tony. I'm sorry too," Pepper replied, sipping at her steaming tea.

The drank their caffeine together in silence, not speaking again until each had the chance to refill their mugs. Finally, Tony asked "is May still up with the kid?"

Pepper shook her head, gesturing over to the the hallway that led to the bedrooms. "I sent her to rest and get a shower a few hours ago. Do you think you could send Happy or someone over to Queens to pick up some necessities for May and Peter?"

Tony shrugged, "I'll see what I can do."

"I just think they would appreciate having their own clothes and some familiar things from home. I tried to offer May my personal shopper, but she refused," Pepper continued.

The billionaire smiled slightly into his cup of coffee, so that was where Peter got his stubbornness and need to do things on his own from. He drained his cup of coffee and stretched out the last of the knots in his back. "You should get some sleep. Don't you have that meeting with the London affiliate in," Tony paused to check his watch, trying to remember how far forward the UK was, "3 hours?"

Pepper simply smiled at him as she collected their dirty mugs and set them in the sink. "I'll be fine, Tony." She stopped to press an affectionate kiss to Tony's cheek before disappearing in the direction of her office.

Tony watched her retreating form until she was out of sight. Left to his own devices in the quiet kitchen, the billionaire threw together a hasty breakfast before making a beeline for the medbay again.

"Tony!" Helen Cho called out as the man entered medbay. "I was hoping to speak with you."

Tony nodded and followed her into her combined office space and lab. He sat silently at the desk she gestured him towards, waiting for the woman to speak. Helen pulled up her tablet, flipping through a few screens before finding the image series she was looking for.

"What's going on?" Tony asked apprehensively. One of the things he appreciated about Helen was that she didn't pull her punches. She was blunt and to the point; qualities that Tony admired in others. He knew she would give it to him straight.

"It looks like Peter has developed pneumonia," she delivered the news with a level voice and a neutral expression.

Tony choked a bit on his next inhale. Just a few hours ago Peter had been finally coming around long enough to hold conversations and now this? God, couldn't this kid catch a break?! He was supposed to have enhanced healing. He was supposed to be getting better, not worse! "How bad?" he eventually asked.

Helen laid the tablet in front of him, an x-ray displayed on the screen. "This is Peter's thoracic radiograph, chest x-ray, on admission to George Washington University Hospital. If you notice this small white area, that was the initial presentation of the pulmonary contusion."

Tony nodded, following the area the doctor outlined with a stylus. "Alright."

With a quick nod, Helen swiped over to the next picture. "This is Peter's x-ray and CT scan 24 hours after admission. You'll notice that the white area is considerably easier to see on the x-ray and has very distinct borders on the CT scan. That is normal, often time the bruising takes some time to fully show up on radiology. The next slides are his radiographs at 36 hours. You'll notice that there are signs of healing here and here," she pointed to the edges of the white area on Peter's left lung.

"I'm with you so far," Tony responded, stamping down a brief flare of impatience.

Helen flipped through the next screen fairly quickly, "these are the radiographs my team took after his arrival at roughly the 48 hour mark. You'll see consistent healing patterns with the 36 hour ones. These, however," she swiped to another set of x-rays, "are the x-rays we just took."

Tony's heart fell as he saw the white area in Peter's left lung expand and grow more opaque. The image looked by far worse than any of the other x-rays Helen had showed him. "What is this?" Tony asked after a moment of shocked silence.

Helen pulled up additional CT scans, displaying several images side by side for comparison, "The white area on the film is both indicative of his injury and an infection. Unfortunately, this isn't uncommon with pulmonary contusions. I was hoping due to Peter's enhanced healing, we could avoid this issue, but it looks like his body has just been under too much strain to fight this off as well."

Tony sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face, "do you know how he got it?"

"Honestly, it could be postextubation pneumonia resulting from lung secretions, mucus and such, being trapped by the endotracheal tube; it could be aspiration pneumonia as a complication of the nasogastric tube that's feeding him or the increased risk of aspiration in patients with head injuries; it could be a complication of the pulmonary contusion; it could even just be a local strain he picked up in the ICU due to a compromised immune system. At this point, there's just no way to tell," the doctor shrugged.

Tony leaned forward in his chair to stare at the radiographs, mind whirring over the new information. "What are you doing for him?"

"Right now we have him on a broad-spectrum antibiotic," she answered, leaning back against the table. "As soon as the strain is identified, I'll switch him over to a narrow-spectrum antibiotic and hopefully we can flush the infection out of his system. I'm just waiting for his cultures to come back before we proceed."

"Alright," Tony nodded.

"Do you have any questions for me?" the doctor asked carefully.

"Yeah," the billionaire snorted. "Is it too late to take back that donation to George Washington?"

"Tony!" Helen snapped, despite knowing that this was likely another example of Tony Stark's off-brand humor. "Any serious questions?"

The man paused a minute to digest the information before asking, "how is this going to affect his prognosis?"

"It's hard to say for certain," Helen replied. "We need to study his healing abilities more closely before we can understand how an infection like this will affect him. Right now, we're working on adjusting his antibiotics to match his metabolic rate. Given that his spleen is still healing as well, making sure he is receiving the correct dose is essential for his recovery. Once we see how well he reacts to the antibiotics, I may be able to tell you more about a prognosis. Most milder cases of pneumonia resolve within a week and those who contract pneumonia in the hospital generally resume normal activity in 2-3 weeks. However, Peter's case is so far outside of normal parameters that it is virtually impossible to predict his rate of healing without further data. I'm mostly worried about how much strain this infection will put on his already bruised lung."

The billionaire sighed, trying to push down the feeling that every turn in Peter's care was met with more and more complications. "Give me some good news."

Helen's expression softened almost imperceptibly. It was so easy to forget that underneath all the armor, uniforms, blood, sweat, and tears that the Avengers were still humans. She smiled tightly, trying her best to look reassuring, "all of his minor scrapes and bruises have completely healed, the puncture wound in his left arm should be healed as well in the next few days, and his fractured vertebrae are already showing signs of calcifying. If the lacerated wound to his left hip continues to heal at the same rate, he may not even need skin grafts. I've only seen his rate of healing rivaled by Steve Rogers."

Tony blanched at the name before quickly schooling his features. He knew it was just Helen here to see him, but right now he needed to keep his composure. There was an intervening period of silence while Tony took the time to process everything. With nothing else to occupy his attention and dreading to think of what he was going to have to tell May, Tony stared at the x-rays in front of him. There in black and white was the latest development threatening Peter. The billionaire really hoped that the kid would prove just as tenacious and resilient as he tried to convince everyone he was. Peter was going to need every once of resilience and strength in the days to come.

Helen cleared her throat after several minutes, trying to recapture Tony's attention and fish him out of whatever headspace he had retreated to. "Would you like to inform Mrs. Parker, or should I?"

Tony continued to stare vacantly at the tablet before visibly shaking himself and snapping back to attention. "I think I will leave this in your very capable hands. Just let FRIDAY know if you need me." Was he selfish to avoid delivering the news to May? Probably. But he also paid the big bucks so other people could handle these types of problems for him. Without another word, Tony slunk from Helen's office and beat a hasty retreat to his rooms. He was tired and the california king in the middle of the bedroom was calling his name. Tony shuffled over, shucking off his clothes as he went. The down comforter was soft and still slightly warm as he sank into it gratefully, rolling over onto his back to stare at the ceiling. There was so much work he needed to get done and he probably shouldn't have left May alone to talk with Helen, but he was tired from the weight of his stress and his impromptu all-nighter. The more he turned the situation over and over in his mind, the easier it was to convince himself that he was doing everyone a favor by bowing out. Tony drifted off to sleep to the sound of the slowly whirring AC and the churning of his thoughts.

It was nearly noon when the billionaire finally stirred. His mind felt groggy and his body sore as he wandered down the hall. Even two cups of coffee did nothing to ease the knot of tension in his shoulders or the headache pulsing just behind his eyes.

He trudged slowly to his office, resisting the urge to detour to med bay. FRIDAY had already assured him that the kid's condition hadn't changed and he was sure that May would appreciate the privacy. Anyways, he hadn't touched work for over two days and he didn't want to get anymore behind than he already was.

The billionaire sighed heavily as he sunk into his office chair, already resigning himself to an afternoon of catching up on his inundated inbox. Amidst the slew of regular business emails and increasingly frantic demands from his top R&D department to approve their latest designs, Tony found several more emails from Ross demanding what in the hell the billionaire had been thinking and a chain from Rhodey reminding him not to talk to Ross without a lawyer and promising to update him in person soon. Tony sighed at the stack of work before him, rubbing his eyes in frustration at the general state of his affairs. Fishing his phone out of his pocket, the billionaire set an alarm for eight hours. If he could just put in eight hours of solid work than he could take a break and step away from this mess again. Surely Pepper wouldn't be upset if he just put in a standard work day? With FRIDAY to keep him company, Tony begrudgingly started in on what promised to be a long and trying afternoon.

Tony was elbows deep in coordinating interviews when his timer finally went off. "Look," he grouched into his phone at his overworked publicist, "just pick whichever news network we don't hate right now and schedule a first interview. Depending on how that goes, we'll see about follow-up interviews. Oh, and throw a bone to that one op-ed writer at the New York Times that likes me. Maybe we can get a nice editorial on the charity fund. Yeah, yeah, that's nice. Look, I gotta go. Uh-huh, I know you have deadlines, but I also have priorities. I'm going now, buh-bye."

The billionaire hung up with a frustrated sigh, running his hand over his goatee before discarding his phone and standing up. He'd worked for hours; he deserved a break. Without a second thought, Tony ducked out of his office and made a beeline for medbay, only stopping long enough to snag the plate of food Pepper had undoubtedly left out for him.

Helen was cordoned off in her office, pouring over what looked like test results. Tony ignored her and continued on to Peter's room. May was still inside, curled up on the couch in the corner and snoring softly. Tony stared at the sleeping woman for a moment trying to decide if he should wake her or not before a wet, rattling cough interrupted his internal debate. The man's eyes snapped over to Peter, watching the dazed boy hack into his oxygen mask. One of the kid's hands raised slowly to clasp the plastic tighter to his face, trying to steal desperate breaths in between coughs. Tony looked over to Helen's office in alarm. He knew the doctor had a readout on all of Peter's vitals and was sure she would come running if she was needed, but the kid sounded awful. As soon as the coughing fit had passed the kid seemed to melt back into his pillows. He continued to breathe heavily before his hand finally fell away from its death grip on the oxygen mask. Tony couldn't tell if he was awake or asleep. Part of him wanted to check on the kid and at least make sure he was resting comfortably after what must have been a painful last few minutes, the other part of Tony was afraid to disturb the fragile silence of the room or wake the teenager if he truly was asleep. From the amount of times - way too many in Pepper's opinion - that he had convalesced in a hospital, Tony knew that uninterrupted sleep was a rare blessing. Even in a private facility with the alarms muted, he had a feeling that Peter was finding it hard to get rest outside of what his exhaustion and the drugs running through his system demanded.

"Pepper said I'd find you up here," A voice behind Tony spoke gently. The man looked back over his shoulder to see Rhodes wander up, hands in his pockets as he approached. The colonel looked tired, face stretched into anxious lines and shoulders tense, both indicators that the man had likely just come from a stressful meeting with Ross. With a sinking feeling, Tony knew that this wasn't just a social call. The two men stood together in a companionable silence, watching Peter through the doorway while the tension in the air slowly faded.

"Ross isn't happy," Rhodey finally spoke.

"Yeah, well you can tell him to crawl up my ass ," Tony immediately spat back. He really hated that man and regretted that in his haste to repair the damage from Sokovia and to try and get some reasonable oversight on what could easily have become a private army, he had invariably become tied to a megalomaniac who was hellbent on the complete subjugation of mutants.

"Tones," his friend warned. "He's not stupid enough to move against you while public opinion is on your side. But if you make one wrong move-"

Tony cut him off, "yeah, yeah, I know. If I put another toe out of line, he'll have me before a congressional hearing faster than I can say 'the raft'. I'm well aware how Ross' particular brand of bureaucracy works."

"That cop you filed a complaint against retaliated," Rhodey continued after a moment. "He's lodged his own official complaint with Ross' office claiming that your presence in the metro bombing search and rescue response hindered search teams and interrupted the efforts of the structural engineers."

"Well that's just peachy," Tony swore leaning his head into the doorframe. "Tell me no one believes him."

Rhodey smiled grimly, "Ross' office is using that angle to question your unauthorized presence in the middle of a domestic crisis situation. They're looking to launch an official inquiry into the mess. I'm not sure if the UN will buy it, but I'm sure this will give the Accord's legal team a headache for the next month."

Tony gave a self-deprecating snort, "tell me there's at least some good news. I mean, saving the day has to count for something, right?"

This time, his friend's smile was softer and more genuine, "The DC fire chief wrote a letter of commendation for your help in recovering the injured and forwarded it to General Ross' office and the president. That along with your foundation's support of the victim's families and offering to cover all funeral and medical costs has gone viral. The internet loves you again, you're trending."

The billionaire huffed a small laugh, "I'd love to see the memes that come out of this one. But in all seriousness, how much shit am I in?"

Rhodey shrugged, "hard to say at this point, maybe none, maybe a whole hell of a lot. I'd play it safe for now."

"You don't have to worry about me," Tony replied after a minute. He jerked his head towards the sleeping teenager, "I'm not planning on going anywhere for right now."

The smile that split Rhodey's face was almost comical, "parenthood looks good on you, Tones."

"Hey!" Tony jerked fully upright and glared at his friend, "I am no one's parent. This," he gestured vaguely at Peter, "is more a mentor/mentee relationship."

"Whatever you say, Iron dad," Rhodey clapped an affectionate hand on Tony's shoulder as he turned to leave.

"I resent that!" Tony called after him. The billionaire sagged against the doorframe, crossing his legs and leaning his weight into the wood behind him. He stared thoughtfully at his feet, wondering exactly when his relationship with Peter had become so close. At first, the kid had been a convenient - if woefully untrained - aid in his crusade against Steve. He never should have gotten a teenager involved in a schism of superpowered adults, but he had needed the firepower and expediency had overridden his conscience.

After that, he had meant their relationship to be more of a sponsorship. Peter would get access to tech and a helping hand if he landed himself in a situation over his head. In return, Tony would secure a hero who could stay close to the ground without getting embroiled in the Accords and hopefully invest in the future of the Avengers.

And then Vulture had happened and Spiderman single-handedly saved a plane full of Tony's inventions, alien tech, and a whole hell of a lot that could have landed him on the bad side of the new international law if they ever saw the light of day. The kid had proved through this own tenacity, courage, and strength of character that he could stand on his own. Sure, he was still impulsive, overly earnest, prone to poor judgement at times, and hadn't fully finished puberty, but those were all things that could be fixed with a little time and training. And had Tony been stupid to offer the kid a position with the Avengers before he could even legally operate a motor vehicle? Probably. But after his own massive screw-up, he needed that olive branch. And then the kid had done something he had never expected: he said no.

Now that Tony thinks about it, that was probably the moment that their relationship had taken a turn for the more personal. He didn't mean to get invested, after all, Tony hadn't lied when he told Peter that if anything happened to the reckless teen, it was on him. But then the kid had continued grow into his own and Tony let himself get caught up in helping shape his future. Peter was so smart, and eager to learn, and damn it, he really hadn't meant to become an authority figure in the kid's life. He had looked away and Peter wormed his way into the man's life. And now here Tony was, picking up the pieces of a broken teenager, helping him heal from a devastating trauma. Rhodey was never going to let him live this down.

With the epiphany still ringing through his brain, Tony pushed himself off of the doorway and fled to his lab. There was nothing that a bit of work and some overly loud rock music couldn't cure.

* * *

Well, that's finally done. So when I started this story, it was supposed to be a 1-2 chapter thing looking at Peter losing his first civilian. But while I was writing that, the last few paragraphs of this chapter (the conversation between Rhodey and Tony) popped into my head and then down onto paper before I had even decided to make this thing an long chapter fic. I've been trying to figure out how to work it in for the past many chapters and finally found a place for it to fit.

Also, didn't I say last chapter that I was happy to leave the medical side behind? Because apparently I am a glutton for punishment and decided to dive right back in. So um, usual disclaimer applies. I am not a medical professional so if you see something that needs to be fixed or is particularly egregious, let me know!

Anyway, I hope you liked this chapter! I am trying to figure out how to include Tony and Pepper's relationship in the background so both characters feel a bit more three-dimensional. We'll see how that plays out!

Hopefully I will have the next chapter out in the next 1-2 weeks. It's already half written and I am planning on working on it some next Sunday, but I am hosting some out of town friends (one of the many cons of growing up, all your friends to do and then move to far away places for impractical reasons like work and quality of life) and we are planning to live it up for the few days we have (one of the pros of growing up, you have disposable income to spend on whatever the heck you want, you know, after all those oh so wonderful bills have been paid).

The title of this chapter comes form Edgar Allen Poe's "A Dream Within a Dream." There's nothing really deeply connected, I just liked the line and was running out of ideas for the chapter title.

Thank you again to everyone who has left comments, kudos, and bookmarks thus far. I really appreciate you guys!


	10. Interlude: Visiting Hours

Ned watched through the bus' window as the countryside flew past. They were rolling into New York later than he would have liked and nightfall was already edging towards the horizon. Everyone on the bus was tired and yet no one seemed to be able to sleep. This was the second time in as many semesters that a class from Midtown was returning to their home lucky to be alive. The realization seemed to weigh heavily on both the students and adults alike and, for once, the bus home from a field trip was silent. A small noise interrupted Ned's thoughts and he looked back at where MJ was also staring out the window.

The girl's chin rested on one hand, nose almost pressed to the glass as she watched the passing road with unseeing eyes. Twin tear tracks on her face shone in the light of passing streetlamps. Almost at once, the girl realized she was being watched and ducked her head down, forearm coming up to surreptitiously wipe at her eyes. "What?" she asked Ned, gaze firmly fixed to his left ear.

Ned couldn't believe his eyes; Michelle fucking Jones was crying. He wasn't sure what to say, if he even could say anything in the situation. Without a word, the teen turned around in his seat, slipping downward to lay against the window. Why could the most stoic kid he knew in high school cry but that release was completely blocked for him? Why couldn't he convince his mind to feel anything?! There was pain, fear, and uncertainty trapped just below the surface and Ned wanted more than anything to let it all out. He was a kid who wore his emotions on his sleeve, it was one of the things that had always protected him in school. Everyone knew what he was feeling at any given moment and he didn't care. Happy, sad, excited, upset, embarrassed, they were his emotions and only he was entitled to feel them. For a geeky, pudgy kid in high school he was honestly surprised by his own ability to let just about anything roll off his back. But this wasn't just anything, this was Peter, his best friend. He could cry over burning the food he was cooking or the fricking dog dying in Old Yeller, but he couldn't make himself cry for Peter. No matter how hard he tried.

Despite his churning thoughts, Ned allowed himself to answer the pull of exhaustion and sink further into the window. The glass was cool beneath the arm that cushioned his head and the motion of the bus oddly soothing. He was asleep before they hit New Jersey.

The school bus turning off the interstate and winding back into the city woke Ned before he was ready. The teen rubbed at bleary eyes, sitting up in his seat to see the familiar surroundings of Queens roll past his window. It was night now, but the darkness was mostly chased away by the absurd light pollution that was New York. Ned smiled fondly at his city, more happy than ever to be home. His phone chirped in his lap and Ned unlocked the screen to see several texts from his mother asking how far out the bus was. Even though he knew she would be upset that he wasn't responding, Ned put the phone down. They would be at the school soon enough and he would have to face her then, for now, he wanted to stay wrapped up in his cocoon of shock with his own thoughts and fears to worry about and no one else's.

MJ sniffed softly behind him, but Ned didn't turn around this time. If she was crying again, he would give her space. His phone chirped once more and Ned glanced down to see a notification for their group chat pop up. The chat was mostly filled with Ned and MJ's demands for Peter to pick up his damn phone and answer them, but nothing new had been added in the past 24 hours. A new message from MJ showed at the bottom of the chat, 'you better be okay, bitch.'

Ned snorted once before tapping out a quick addendum, 'don't make me get the necronomicon, Peter.' He could hear the soft laugh from MJ behind him and, man, was the brief attempt at humor worth it for just that sound. Crying MJ was beginning to unnerve him.

The pick up zone of the school was full of parents as the bus pulled in. Adults that would have normally waited for their children in the relative comfort of their cars were huddled together in the muggy summer night, waiting anxiously for their kids. Ned was immediately reminded of the aftermath of their last Washington DC trip, with the anxious parents waiting desperately to see their children who almost hadn't come home. This time, Ned thought with sadness, there was no Spiderman to save the day. This time, not everyone was coming home.

The teen fled the bus as soon as he could, his backpack and duffle bag carelessly slung over one shoulder. His mom was waiting for him, arms opening wide when she saw him and tears stains on her cheeks. In this moment, Ned didn't care that he was a high-schooler with a reputation to protect or that his friends and classmates could see him, he ran into the hug. Desperately clinging to the small woman, Ned buried his face into her shoulder and shook with a cascade of emotion. Stress, fear, sadness, grief, and relief at making it home safe all warred for dominance within him, but he still couldn't cry. After several minutes, his mom started steering him towards the street, arms still clenched tightly about him.

"Come on, sweetie, let's get you home," his mother murmured as she helped him into the back of a cab. Ned let his mom fawn over him, knowing that it was more for her comfort than his.

"I'm so glad you're safe," his mother continued as she pulled Ned into her side. "You are never allowed to go to DC without me again."

The cabby glanced into his rear-view mirror curiously at that before focusing back on driving. Ned didn't say anything, letting his mom chitter nervously as they meandered their way home. He should be grateful that he had escaped, but all he could think about was that Peter had not.

As the front door to their apartment swung open, the smell of fresh baked pani popo, all-purpose citrus cleaner, and the lingering smog of New York City hit Ned more sharply than usual. Home. He breathed deeply, taking in the familiar scents. His mom hurried past him, snagging his duffel bag on the way and shoving it in their laundry closet. The teen continued to stand in the open doorway, eyeing his mother with a vacant expression. After a moment, the woman gently directed the teen into the combined kitchen and living area that made up the largest part of their living space.

Ned simply stared at his familiar surroundings, wondering where to go from here. Everything he normally did suddenly seemed so silly. Was he really expected to go back to school after surviving a terrorist attack, or do his homework, or binge watch Netflix while he put together insanely expensive lego sets? After everything he had been through in the last 48 hours, his normal life seemed woefully out of place and carefree. "Can I go to bed?" he finally managed to ask after several minutes.

"Of course, sweetheart," his mother replied gently.

Ned retreated down the hallway before the woman could finish wishing him goodnight. His bed was a welcome comfort and the teen sank into it gratefully, blocking out the rest of the world. Despite the deep exhaustion and numbness that seemed to almost physically weigh him down into his bedspread, sleep eluded the teen. Ned tossed and turned for what felt like hours, before finally falling into an uneasy sleep.

The persistent sounds of Disney's Pocahontas invaded his sleep, turning his mundane dream of getting ready for school into a wash of color and overly eager ritualism. His toothbrush offered him spiritual guidance as he debated whether to use the acid green or the canary yellow potions that had replaced his toothpaste. The singing grew louder and louder in his head until Ned realized that it wasn't actually coming from his dream. Groggily, the teen rolled over, hand fumbling for his phone in the pre-dawn gloom. Ned barely paused to breathe when he saw the name on caller id. "Hello?" he answered in a sleep-clouded, but anxious voice.

"Ned?" May's voice broke halfway through his name and he could hear the woman sniffling on the other side.

"Oh my god, tell me he's not dead!" Ned gasped, springing out of his bed to rush for the door, as if he could run to wherever the woman was calling from.

"No, no," May sniffled again. "He's alive, Tony got him through alive."

The relief was so great that Ned physically couldn't contain it. His knees went weak and the boy stumbled back to his bed, sinking heavily onto it. "He's alive?"

"Yeah," May managed through her tears, "he's alive."

His eyes burned and Ned reached up to rub them, surprised when his hand came away wet. A drop of hot liquid splashed onto his fingers as he held the hand up to his eye. He was crying. Finally, he was crying. And just like that, the dam that had been holding back his tears and emotions for the past two days shattered. The teen keened into the phone, sobbing messily.

"Shh, Ned. It's okay, he's okay," May's soothing did little to stop the flood of tears Ned had been holding back and before either of them knew it, the woman joined him. They cried together until Ned's eyes were puffy and his voice sore.

May waited patiently as the teen composed himself before speaking again, "I'm sorry to wake you, but I wanted to tell you that Peter's being transferred back to one of Mr. Stark's facilities upstate. Once he gets settled, would you like to come see him?"

"Oh my god, yes," Ned immediately agreed.

"If everything is still going alright tomorrow, I'll have someone pick you up after school and bring you over," May promised.

"Okay, that sounds like a plan," Ned nodded. "Should I bring anything. Maybe some books or lego to keep him from getting bored?"

May sighed on the other end, stress and anxiety clear in her tone, "he's not awake yet and I don't know if he will be tomorrow. You can bring something if you want, but you might have to wait to give it to him."

Ned's shoulders slumped at the news and he put down the lego catalog he had already been trying to stuff into his backpack. "Do they know when he's going to wake up?"

"Right now everything is kinda up in the air," May began. "I'll tell you more about it tomorrow. Oh, and Ned?"

"Yes?" Ned replied.

"Be sure to have your mom text me that it's alright for you to come upstate tomorrow. I don't want to steal you from school if she doesn't know," May's 'mom voice' was just as impressive through the phone as it was in real life.

"Yes ma'am," Ned groaned. With a few hasty goodbyes, he hung up the call.

The phone was unceremoniously discarded as Ned bounded for his bedroom door, ripping it open, and leaning out into the hallway. "Mom, Mom!"

There was some clattering in the kitchen before the small woman poked her head out into the hallway, "What do you need, Ned?"

"Peter's alive. He's going to be alright," Ned breathed out quickly, nearly slamming the words together in his haste. "Can I go see him tomorrow?"

Mrs. Leeds sighed in relief and strode down the hallway to stand in front of Ned. A dish-towel was thrown over her shoulder and soap suds clung to her fingers even though she was already dressed in her business heels and blouse. Her face was drawn and tired and it looked like she hadn't stopped moving since she brought her son home the night before. "I don't think so Ned, DC is a long way to go on such short notice. Why don't we wait to hear from May and then figure it out, okay?"

"But Mom," Ned groaned, drawing out 'mom' as if he was still five and begging for ice cream. "I just talked with May, they're transferring Peter upstate and she says I can go see him tomorrow after school. If you don't believe me just give her a call, she wanted you to contact her anyway."

His mother scowled at Ned's petulant tone but didn't comment. She crouched down a couple of inches to meet her son's eyes, "alright Ned, I'll talk to May and see what we can do. I'm glad that Peter's going to be alright. Now, please go get some more sleep. I've already called your school to let them know we're giving you the day off. But you have to go back tomorrow, so I don't want to hear any lip about it." Her firm, but kind tone halted any protests that Ned had.  
He retreated back to his room, initially too excited to try and sleep again. Instead he curled up in his bed with his phone, intent on reading the heck out of some truly awful Star Wars fanfiction that he had found last week. Man, Peter was going to flip out when he told him about the latest awful pairing. Maybe the story would even be bad enough that he could add it to their specially curated 'Ned and Peter's awful awful fanfic list'. Before the boy knew it, he had drifted back to sleep.

Ned slept through lunch, dinner, and well into the evening. When he finally rolled out of bed, his LEGO Batman clock told him it was nearly eight o'clock. His normal bedtime was just two hours away. With a yawn and a stretch, Ned pushed himself off of his mattress and out the door. He felt sleep-drunk and listless, like his head was several degrees warmer than the rest of his body and stuffed with cotton balls. There was a gentle glow from the living area and Ned stumbled into the room to see the TV on at low volume. A balding head resting on the back of a recliner was the only indication that anyone else was present in their small apartment.

"Dad?" Ned croaked quietly, voice congested from sleep.

The man in the recliner sat up and turned around to stare at the teen over the top of the worn chair. "Ned, you're up! Your mom left dinner in the fridge for you before she went to bed."

The teen just shook his head, glancing at the fridge once before shuffling past his father to sit on the couch. The older man watched his son for a moment before turning back to the TV. He didn't move to hug him or baby him like his mother had done, ostensibly preferring to give the kid space and time. Appreciation rushed through Ned at his father's casual and open air. He knew it must be killing the man not to try and fix the situation, but his father also seemed to sense that this was something Ned needed to come to terms with in his own time.

"I can put on that alien show with MacGyver if you'd like?" the man offered after a moment of pregnant silence.

Ned shook his head, "Can we just," he gestured at the paused TV show, "keep watching whatever? I think you watching one of my nerd shows might actually convince me that this is all a dream."

His father looked uncertain and sad for a moment before turning away. The glow of the TV illuminated the man's profile and Ned watched him swallow convulsively before trying to school his features. "Of course Ned," he responded after a moment, voice quavering suspiciously.

Ned sat back and watched the man's favorite show - something about the backwoods that the teen didn't understand - basking in the sheer normalcy of the moment. As the episode got underway, the teen found himself relaxing in the familiarity of home, finally feeling like he could come down from whatever state of numb skittishness he had been trapped in for the last two days. The unfinished lego set on the coffee table called his name and the teen slid to the floor in front of it, idly assembling what would turn out to be a functioning Batcave. Ned had hoped to put the finishing touches on it with Peter as they binged the 1960s live action series with Adam West. That would have made them laugh for hours as they set up the display and tried to make everything look like it did in the instructions. Ned set down the car he was working on, looking over his shoulder at his father. The man was half paying attention to him and the other half to the show but he looked up immediately when the boy cleared his throat.

"I'm going to bed," Ned announced after a minute. He tried to keep the hollowness out of his voice and tacked on a yawn at the end for show.

His father leaned forward to place a strong, calloused hand on Ned's shoulder, "go ahead, bud. Just let me know if you need anything, yeah? I'm on second shift tomorrow so I'll be here all night if you need me."

"Yeah," Ned shrugged off his hand and rose to his feet, fleeing for the comfort of his bed. Ned hugged the Porg plushie that Peter had given him for his last birthday and rocked himself into an uneasy sleep.

The next morning dawned dull and humid, an almost suffocating mugginess falling on Queens. Ned woke to the blare of his alarm, rolling over onto his phone to muffle it rather than bother turning it off. He stared at the wall on the far side of the bed and tried to come up with the will to go to school. It was only his mother's insistent coaxing that got him up, dressed, and out the door on time. Ned would have protested having return to school so soon if it wasn't for the overfull bag of goodies his mom packed him and the prospect of returning to some semblance of normalcy. And so with the well-wishes of his parents still ringing in his ears, the teenager scrambled out the door and headed for the subway.

For once in his life, Ned didn't encounter any delays on his commute to school and actually managed to stumble through the doors a full 15 minutes earlier than normal. A few other students milled around, talking at their lockers or sipping on coffee as they wandered around the halls in an almost zombie-like state. Ned bypassed them all, stopping at his locker only long enough to collect the books he needed for his first period before marching off for his homeroom with downcast eyes.

"Mr. Leeds, there you are!" a voice called.

Ned's head shot up to see Stephanie Scott, the school's secretary, striding towards him through the halls. "I was just on my way to your homeroom," she explained as she drew nearer to him.

"What's going on?" Ned asked, dread settling in his stomach. Please don't be about Peter, please don't be about Peter, the teen mumbled silently to himself.

"Principal Morita would like to speak with you," Stephanie began.

"Is it about Peter?" he asked nervously, following along just behind the secretary as she lead the way back to the administrative offices.

"Nothing's wrong, Mr. Leeds." The secretary glanced over her shoulder to see the color noticeably draining from the student's face and quickly tacked on, "the principal would simply like to check in on you after what occurred in Washington."

The woman ushered Ned into the administrative office and gestured for him to take a seat on one of the hard chairs that lined the far wall. No sooner had the teen sat down and finally managed to wiggle into a comfortable position, than the principal's office door opened. "Mr. Leeds," Principal Morita called, holding the door wide for Ned to shuffle through.

"Please have a seat," the principal gestured to one of the chairs facing his desk before resuming his own seat. "You're not in any trouble, Ned. I just want to see how you are doing after everything that happened over the weekend."

From his place perched on the edge of the principal's nice leather chair, Ned just shrugged, unsure how to respond. The teen picked nervously at the cuffs of the button up he had thrown on over one of his favorite graphic t-shirts. He knew that the nervous habit was probably very apparent to the other man, but right now Ned was tired and unsure and this helped.

After their silence had stretched out into an awkward pause, the principal cleared his throat and steepled his hands beneath his chin, "I know that this has to a scary and uncertain time for you."

Ned shrugged again, looking down at this shoes instead of meeting the searching eyes of the man across from him. He felt jittery and wanted nothing more than to flee from this room.

Principal Morita sighed, leaning back and straightening his tie before speaking again, "Ned, I want you know that we are behind you 100%. Your teachers and our administration are here for you."

"Yes, sir," Ned mumbled in response, burying the last part in a nervous cough.

"Now, I've already spoken with your parents about this and we've agreed that it would be best for you to speak with the counselor, Mr. Biegeleisen." It felt like the man was trying to be gentle, but Ned had spent his entire high school career intimidated by the principal's authority and the softness of Morita's voice was putting him on edge more than it was comforting him.

"Yes, sir," mumbled Ned.

Likely realizing that his student was uncomfortable and anxious, Principal Morita folded his hands in his lap and leaned back in his chair. Ned got the distinct impression that he was trying to appear less threatening and more casual. It wasn't working. After another awkward pause, the man spoke again, "I know talking with a professional can be - intimidating. But I want you to promise that you will at least try one session. If you don't want to go back after that, I'm not going to force you."

"Yes, sir," Ned rubbed the back of his neck nervously as he stuttered his way through the reply. Gosh dang flipping Batman, he needed to come up with a new response - and a new curse, even in his head that was bad.

"Alright," the principal stood from his chair and indicated the door behind Ned. "I'll let you get back to class."

Ned nodded, shooting up from his chair quickly and trying not to trip over his own feet as he bolted for the door. "Thank you," the teen mumbled as he shuffled out.

"And Mr. Leeds?" Principal Morita called as Ned made a beeline for the exit. "We are here for you. Please don't hesitate to use the resources at your disposal."

The teen turned back long enough to attempt a smile and a slightly shaky thumbs-up before dashing away. Man that was awkward and scary. "Note to self," Ned murmured as he fast-walked through the silent halls, "never end up in his office again."

His phone chirped as Ned scampered in for the last few minutes of homeroom and he glanced down at the device to see a notification from his mom. 'May is sending someone to pick you up after your last period. Don't worry about decathlon, I spoke with Mr. Harrington. Have a good day xoxo.' Ned shook his head fondly at his mother's text; the woman had never fully adapted to texting and still signed off on all of her messages.

At a stern glance form his teacher, Ned slid the phone back into his pocket and concentrated on the handout in front of him. This was shaping up to be an odd day.

In hindsight, Ned was sure he never would have made it through that first day back if not for the promise of seeing Peter. Half of the AP government class was still absent and Ms. Andrews couldn't help but stutter every time she turned from the board to see her few students. Though her makeup was impeccable as always, Ned could tell from the teacher's red eyes that she had been crying. The rest of his teachers tried to go on like it was just a normal day of school, ignoring the empty chair in their class and never speaking of the boy who should have been there.

In stark contrast, the hallways were alight with rumours and speculation over what had happened to Peter and who the still unnamed terrorists were. Everywhere he turned, Ned seemed to overhear some group of teens whispering about the bombing. Many cast him furtive glances as he wandered between classes, some pitying and others curious. A few braver students called out as he passed, asking him what happened in DC and how he felt about being in a terror attack. Ned brushed these few off with a cold stare and some mumbled words. Flash, for his part, was oddly silent. He didn't knock Ned's books out of his hands as he passed. And the few times he heard the bully talking about Peter, Flash used his name and not the usual slur.

When the bell finally signaled the end of the day, Ned was uncharacteristically one of the first out of the school, ignoring the teacher's instructions on the readings due the next day as he practically leapt over his desk for the door. The teen scanned the crowd for May and her old, beat up station wagon, but instead found a harried man with a small whiteboard that read 'Leeds' in bold letters.

"Seriously?" Ned mumbled to himself, but tripped down the stairs nonetheless in the stranger's direction.

"Are you Ned?" the man asked when the teen came to an uncoordinated halt before him.

"You're not very good at this," Ned supplied in lieu of an answer, tongue tripping over his words as he babbled. "Most parents don't get out of their cars and the few butlers or whatever the heck the rich kids have tend to wait around the corner to avoid the line. Did May send you?"

The man held the door open for Ned, glowering silently as he waited for the teen to finish speaking. When Ned paused for breath, he seized his chance. "You're lucky I like my job, kid. Now, get in the car if you want to see Peter."

"Sir, yes sir." Ned responded and crawled into the backseat. The car was certainly more inconspicuous than a limo, but the smooth black lines of the sedan and the supple leather interior spoke of luxury. Idly, Ned wondered if maybe this was an Audi, that seemed like the type of car rich people drove. "Where are we going?"

"Upstate," the older man answered as he climbed into the driver's seat and closed the door. They joined the line of vehicles waiting to turn out of the school.

"What do I call you?" Ned asked after they had pulled onto the busy street.

"Happy," the man answered in a gruff tone.

Ned thought about this for a moment before bursting out, "I knew I recognized you! You're the one that hung up on me when we were trying to warn you about the plane! You know, Peter almost died trying to stop Liz's dad."

Happy didn't respond to the teen, focusing on the road before him and swearing under his breath at the other drivers. From his spot on the rear bench, Ned could see his brow clenched in a deep expression of annoyance as he maneuvered around rush hour traffic.

"Why do they call you Happy, anyway? You don't look very happy," the teen tried to raise a skeptical eyebrow, but the other one quickly followed it's twin and only succeeded in giving him a slightly surprised look. The teen cursed silently as he rubbed at his forehead. Dang, he was going to have to practice that eyebrow quirk in the mirror some more before he tried it in public again.

The man didn't reply to his question and the occupants of the car lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Ned stared out his window, trying to ignore the niggling part of his brain that kept supplying him with question after question to ask. Finally, he lost the battle, "Hey, Happy? Is this in Audi?"

"It's a Bentley," the man replied, glancing back in the rearview mirror with a stern look. "Do all teenagers talk so much, or is it just you nerds?"

Ned shrugged, "I dunno. All my friends are nerds so I don't really have anything to compare us to."

"Kid, that was a rhetorical question," Happy grouched. "And a hint to give me some peace and quiet."

Ned snapped his mouth closed, turning in his seat to gaze out the window as they sped along the interstate, heading out of the city. His jittery legs bounced with the nervous energy of all his pent up questions. In the end, he only managed five minutes of silence, "So where are you we going exactly and-"

"Nope," Happy cut him off. The partition between the two began to raise and the man scowled fiercely into the rearview mirror until he was finally cut off by the reflective glass panel.

With a dramatic sigh, Ned flopped back into his seat, digging around his backpack for his phone and earbuds. If Happy didn't want to talk to him, then he had several podcasts to keep him company instead. With the sweet sound of Cecil Baldwin's voice playing in his ear, Ned sank down on the seat and watched the sky pass by outside.

"Kid," Happy's voice called over his podcast and Ned struggled upright. He hadn't even noticed that the partition had come down until the other man spoke. "We're here."

Ned pressed his face to the glass, gawking as the shining building grew closer and closer. "No freaking way!" he squealed. "This is the Avengers Compound! You mean Peter is staying with the Avengers?!"

The car swung around on a broad loop and Ned greedily drank in every detail. The enormous windows covering one of the exterior walls gleamed in the mid-afternoon sun, nearly obscuring the prominent Avengers logo on the side of the building. Happy smirked slightly to himself, turning into the loading bays and casually rolling past the vehicles still parked on tarmac. He kept one eye on the familiar road and the other on his rearview mirror, watching as the teen practically gave himself whiplash from the amount of stuff he was trying to take in at the same time.

All too soon, the car pulled into a garage, cutting off Ned's view of the complex. "Ah," he mumbled, disappointment clear in his tone. He had half a mind to ask Happy if they could take a slow drive around the whole thing, but the man in question was already climbing out of the car.

"Alright, kid. This is it," Happy told him as he opened the car door on Ned's side. He steered the kid into the complex, past the lower work level, and into a private elevator. A biometric scanner mounted on the interior unlocked a separate panel to the private floors. Ned desperately wanted to be excited over all the technology that surrounded him; his fingers should have itched to figure out how the biometric scanner worked and what the security measures in this building were like, but the closer he got to Peter's physical location the more and more preoccupied he became. The teen hadn't really stopped to consider what this would be like. Hospitals were not a familiar environment for him and he couldn't help but insert Peter into situations that he had seen on TV. Would he be hooked up to a machine that breathed for him? Would there be a monitor beeping in time with his heart? Would his friend look small and deathly still surrounded by big and scary machines?

Ned's unease must have permeated from him enough that Happy noticed. As he escorted the teen off of the elevator, the older man clapped a not unkind hand to his shoulder and patted him sharply. With a watery smile, Ned cleared his throat and tugged his sleeves back into place.

"This is the floor for the infirmary, just head through the double doors ahead of you," Happy gestured down the hall to a wall of windows and a seamless glass door. "Oh, and keep this on you while you're up here."

Ned looked back at the man in surprise, belatedly realizing that Happy was holding something out to him. The man scowled at the teen's lack of response before shoving the object into his hands. "What is this?" Ned asked, holding a plastic badge up to his face.

Happy grumbled something about 'nerd school' and 'should know this' before restraining his expression and carefully explaining, "access to the infirmary and other features on this floor are normally granted through facial recognition or numeric locks, neither of which we are trusting to a child. That badge will let you come and go from the infirmary while you are here. Don't lose it."

With that, the man turned and stalked back into the elevator, leaving Ned by himself in the silent hall. The teen looped the lanyard around his neck and made a beeline for the infirmary, not even stopping to marvel as the doors unlocked and slid open silently for him without him having to even swipe his badge. May poked her head out of an open door farther down the hall at the sound of Ned's thundering feet.

Her face lit up in a bittersweet smile as she tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear. "He's in here," she held out a hand beckoning Ned onwards.

With his heart suddenly thudding uncomfortably in his stomach and a lump of fear in his throat, Ned took her offered hand and let himself be led into the room. Whatever he was expecting to see, this was so much worse. The teen felt like he had been physically slapped. It was only May's firm grip on his wrist that kept him from recoiling in shock and horror.

"I know this is scary but I promise you that it looks worse than it is. You know Peter, he heals fast. He was even awake a little while ago," May spoke to him the whole time she steered him towards the bed, voice gentle and caring.

Peter lay bonelessly on a small mound of pillows, eyes roving beneath their lids and small tremors running throughout his body. His head and a good portion of his left side were swathed in bandages, but scrapes and ugly yellow bruising blossomed out across the skin that wasn't covered. There was a bulky brace on his friend's back that Ned suspected was the only thing keeping Peter from slumping in on himself. A clear plastic mask clasped over the injured teen's nose and mouth forced Ned to step right up to the bedside in order to see his friend's face. Peter looked remarkably pale beneath the mask, expression vacant even as the muscles in his face twitched sporadically. Ned fumbled down the length of Peter's arm, reaching for his right hand. A plastic clip met his fingers and the teen looked down in confusion.

"It's okay," May told him gently. "You can hold his hand, you won't hurt anything."

Ned nodded jerkily and sniffed, trying his best to keep from crying. The teen carefully cradled his best friend's hand as if he was afraid too much pressure would cause the appendage to break. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but the only thing that he could force out was a wheeze.

Seeming to sense exactly what the boy needed, May excused herself, "I'll be just outside if you need me. It's going to take some time, but he will be okay."

And then Ned was alone. He perched on the edge of the bed, staring down at the hand in his grasp to avoid looking at the rest of Peter. "I can't believe you're staying with the freaking Avengers, dude."

Ned sniffled again. He could power through this. "You were supposed to be the one to show me this. We were supposed to have that brotastic sleepover you keep talking about and get ourselves into all the places we're not allowed to see."

Peter didn't respond beyond the slightly raw sound of his breathing. Ned's head jerked up to watch the other boy, taking in the fact that even though he was beat up and unconscious, Peter was alive and would reportedly recover. A small, watery laugh escaped the teen, "you better not stand me up on that sleepover. I am expecting all of the normal bells and whistles when you get out of here."

Silence sat heavily on the room for several minutes as Ned tried to think of something else to say. He had been looking forward to seeing his friend for the past two days, but now that he was here, it took everything Ned had not to turn around and run out again. The teen sighed in an attempt to release some tension before casting around the room for something to talk about.

"You should have seen everyone at school today," Ned finally mumbled after a moment. "Everyone knows your name now. At least ten people asked me for your number to 'check up on you.' But don't worry, I only gave it to the cute ones. You are going to be one of the most popular kids when you come back."

Mirth bubbled up inside Ned, surprising the teen with a small laugh as he thought of his weirdest day at school yet. "Flash didn't even call you Penis. All day. I thought he was going to have a seizure every time he used your name."

"Oh! Speaking of school," the teen rustled around in his bulging backpack, pulling out item after item. "Ms. Andrews gave you a new set of books since we assumed everything in your backpack was wrecked. And your other teachers are going to pass on the homework to me and MJ. We've got you all sorted."

A small stack of books and papers grew on Peter's bedside table. Ned placed a pack of Avenger's themed pencils and erasers on top of it.

"Just, wake up soon, okay? You still owe me that Lord of the Rings marathon. Extended editions," Ned patted Peter's hand once more before carefully setting it down on his friend's bandaged stomach. Pushing off from the bed, Ned made it to the door before he looked back at the unconscious teen. "I'm glad you're not dead. But if you do die, promise me you'll haunt Flash forever?"

Ned fished his phone out of his pocket and scrolled through to their group chat. MJ was finally active after ghosting him for the majority of the day. 'Let's spam him with memes', the teen tapped out. After a minute, MJ's reply chirped: 'Totally'. A wry smile pulled at Ned's lips as he pictured Peter's face when he finally got all of these. They were going to freaking bury him in nerdiness. He waved goodbye to Peter and stepped into the hallway

"Ned," May asked softly as the teen reappeared from Peter's room, one arm wrapping around his shoulders in a loose hug. "Are you going to be okay?"

Ned looked up at the woman, sniffling back a few stray tears as he thought about the question. "Yeah," he finally answered. "I think I will be."

* * *

Sorry this is a bit later than I meant. Between prepping for Florence and general crappy adulting things I had to take care of (so many hours stuck balancing my ledgers), the last few weeks have been busy. The good news is that the hurricane took a turn north just before us and all we got was some rain and wind. The other good news is that I tracked down an erroneous purchase on my account which, after investigation, did not prove to be identity theft and was instead my cat activating a one-click purchase on Amazon which I was thankfully able to get reversed. The bad news is that another storm system came in and flooded my area. My apartment got cut off for a little bit and I have water damage to my car after the runoff stream in our apartment complex decided to invade. Don't grow up, it's not worth it.

Normal disclaimer here: I was homeschooled k-12 and never attended any type of education institution until college. I have no clue what high school is like or how classes work. My only experience with this is the few public schooled friends I had in my teen years and stupid high school/coming of age movies. Seriously, at 15 I had more friends who were over 30 than I did kids my own age.

A note on Ned's character: I've been trying to balance his exuberant, overly curious, slightly hyperactive, and obsessive personality with the experience of trauma. This does inevitably tend to throw people out of character and put a damper on their usual self-expression. In this chapter I tried to focus more on the initial emotional shock and psychological re-orientation that follows a single incident trauma. Hopefully I've been able to convey how someone like Ned might respond in this type of situation. I would like to stress that though there are common reactions to single incident traumas (car crashes, assault, witnessing a violent act or crime, kidnapping, hostage situations, terrorist attacks, witnessing death, general accidents, etc.), every individual experiences trauma in unique ways and I am trying to give a portrayal of personal experience rather than a laundry list of symptoms. Any feedback you guys have for my portrayal would be appreciated!


	11. When we were there together

Peter passed the hours in a twilight doze, too tired to fully comprehend his surroundings, and too sick to manage sleep for more than 15 minutes at a time. Whatever medication they had him on left him keyed up and completely worn out in turns, as if artificial adrenaline was being pumped into his veins every time he even thought of a good night's sleep. The teen also felt sore and heavy; the parts of him that didn't burn with pain tingled with numbness. And despite the painkiller that had been modified specially for him, there was a deep soreness in Peter's chest that twinged with every cough, fevered shiver, and sniffle.

Dr. Cho came and went periodically, one eye on Peter's monitors and the other on the boy himself. A small complement of nurses kept him company throughout the day, adjusting his infusion pump, changing his dressings, and feeding him a thickened concoction that tasted somewhat of chicken. Peter supposed he should be grateful that the invasive tube running through his nose, down his throat, and into his stomach had finally been removed; but the chore of choking down the nurses' nasty food sowed deep regret and mistrust within his tired mind.

May was a constant in his environment, always by his bedside when he slipped into sleep or startled awake. Peter wanted to ask her what was going on and why she wasn't at work, but it seemed that every time he opened his mouth to speak, a coughing fit stole his breath. May held his hand through the worst of them and helped clean him up afterwards when he was too tired to wipe away whatever gunk he had coughed up. Everytime, she looked worriedly at the tissue, scrutinizing the disgusting substance. She always seemed relieved afterwards though, so Peter figured he was at least doing something right.

"Breathing sucks," he mumbled through his mask to May after one particularly bad fit.

"I know, honey," May tried to reassure as she smoothed his hair back. "Is there anything else you can give him?" this last past was directed at a young nurse that Peter hadn't even noticed was next to his bed.

"He's on the max dose of painkillers we can give him at this stage and we've already started supportive bronchodilator therapy," the nurse answered. At the confused looks that she received she clarified, "he's being given medication to open up his airways and make it easier to breathe along with the antibiotic treatment to flush out his infection. Unfortunately the trauma to his chest along with the infection is going to make his lung sore for a while and I can't give him anything else for that."

Peter fumbled with his mask, trying to wiggle it over his head. He didn't care what was going on in his body, he wanted that mask off immediately. A fine mist ghosted over his face as he finally managed to pull it up his forehead.

"You need to keep that on," the nurse of the hour told him. Peter tried to batt away the woman as she gently snapped the mask back in place. "I know it can be uncomfortable, but that mask is delivering the bronchodilator directly to your respiratory tract. If you take it off, you're not going to get any better."

The teen gave up fighting, one hand falling to his side and the other adjusting the mask to a more comfortable position. He breathed in deeply as the mask dispersed another puff of fine mist.

The nurse smiled, white teeth shining against her dark face. She patted Peter's hand, "there you go. Just breathe as normally as you can. We'll have you fixed up in no time. Let me, Dr. Cho, or any of your other nurses know if the pain gets any worse."

Peter nodded in response, head lolling back towards May when the nurse turned away from him again to check his vitals display. "Hi," he breathed at his aunt, fingers wiggling in a small wave. He had almost forgotten she was in the room with him.

"Hi you," May answered. The small smile that tugged at her lips was a welcome change from the worry that seemed to have permanently taken up residence there.

"Did anyone else make it?" Peter asked after a moment of comfortable silence. "Out of the metro?"

May sighed, the smile falling from her face as she reached up to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. The teen got the distinct impression that this wasn't the first time he had asked this question.

"There were many survivors," his aunt answered after a minute. "The station didn't completely collapse and a lot of people got out."

Peter nodded slowly, mulling over this information before he asked his next question, "but other people died?"

A heavy sigh fell from his aunt's lips as she tried to pull herself together. "Yes," she finally answered.

"And Marie?" Peter asked. "I think Tony told me she died too?"

"Peter, please," his aunt looked close to tears. "Can we talk about this when you're feeling better?"

The teen tried to protest, but ended up coughing instead. He rode the fit out, one hand clenched around the rail of his bed and the other cupped around the tissue May held to his mouth. When it was all done, he spat out a thick wad of mucus before the mask was once again settled over his nose and mouth.

"Shh, Peter," his aunt was murmuring a mantra that he had almost memorized at this point. "It's okay, honey. It's okay, just sleep."

Tears of frustration, pain, and grief leaked from Peter's eyes as he turned his head into his pillow and tried to get comfortable. Not for the first time that day, and probably not for the last time, the boy cried himself to sleep.

The day passed in a muddled mess of consciousness. Peter wasn't entirely certain what was a dream and what was reality. The only thing he was certain of was how horrible he felt. Finally, he reached a point where his lungs didn't seize on every breath and his body didn't hurt long enough for him to fully sink into the numbness of pain relief. The teen slipped into a fitful, but thankfully extended, rest.

When he was next aware of anything outside of his immediate malfunctioning body, Peter realized that someone was once again seated by his bedside. He reached out, fingers stretching for the familiar warmth of his aunt's hand. Instead he was met with a hairy arm. "Huh," he muttered to himself as his brain tried to figure out which way was up and who the arm could belong to.

"'Bout time you woke up," Tony's voice was warm and surprisingly quiet. "Everytime I came to see you, you were asleep. I was beginning to think you didn't like me."

Peter blinked up at the man, face blank and tired. It took him a moment to process what was being said. Joking, he was joking, Peter's mind supplied after a minute of silence. All the conversations the teen had participated in since he first woke up had been serious and, quite frankly, he was already getting tired of crying. Peter had almost forgotten how much he missed sarcasm and flippant comments The boy cracked a smile. Maybe it was time for a joke of his own. "Am I dead?" he asked after a moment. "Is this hell?"

An unreadable emotion passed over Tony's face before understanding dawned and his face twisted into an amused grimace, "new rule: no joking about dying until you can sit up on your own. Also: no getting in this much trouble again until you're at least 30. I can't afford any more gray hairs, it ruins my carefully cultivated youthful appearance."

Peter barked a small laugh, the puff of air fogging up his mask. He took a moment to breath and swallow around the urge to cough before speaking again, "Sure, Mr. Star-" Violent coughs stole the teen's words and threw him into a fit of hacking and desperate sputters. Peter tried to suck in air between coughs, lungs clamped in an iron vice and chest screaming at the deep soreness. His broken back spasmed painfully as the boy's body shook with the force of the fit. Finally, the coughing subsided and Peter was left boneless against his pillows, woozily gasping for breath like a landed fish."

"Easy, kid, easy. Dr. Cho was able to modify the antibiotics to work with your mutation and you're responding well to it, but you're not there yet," Tony explained. "Just take it easy for a while."

The boy gave a shaky thumbs up. He lay still for several minutes, reigning his breathing in and blinking the odd spots of color out of his vision before asking one of the questions that had plagued him since he first woke up, "How long am I stuck here?"

Tony shrugged in response, "I honestly don't know. That all depends on your rate of healing and how long Dr. Cho wants to observe you."

Peter huffed, trying to calculate in his head how long it took him to heal from injuries in the past. "Do you think I can't get out of here by next week?"

"I mean, don't get me wrong," Tony rubbed at the nape of his neck with one of his large hands. "You're healing insanely fast, but you were really hurt, kiddo. It's only because of your enhancements that you even made it out of there alive. This isn't something you're going to bounce back from immediately. You need to take the time to heal."

"This sucks," Peter sulked. "I hate this."

"Trust me, I know," Tony laughed slightly. "Now, why don't you try to get some more sleep? The more sleep you get the sooner you'll be out of here."

Peter nodded, sinking further into his pillows and getting comfortable. More sleep sounded good, he thought as his eyes blinked tiredly up at the ceiling. And then a thought struck him, "wait, Mr. Stark!" The boy struggled upright in his bed to look at the billionaire, "but what about school? Finals are in a few weeks and I can't afford to fall behind!"

Tony gaped incredulously at the teen in front of him. Only this kid would survive a terrorist attack and be more worried about school than he was his own health. "That's what you're worried about?" he finally asked. "Seriously?"

"But Mr. Stark, I need to keep my grades up to be Spiderman and stay within my GPA margin to keep my spot on the decathlon team," Peter tried to explain through a coughing fit.

Tony waited patiently for the boy to finish hacking up a lung before offering him some tissues and advice, "Look. Peter. I know you want to get things back to normal as fast as possible, but you need to focus on yourself here and your health."

"But, Mr. Stark-" Peter started to protest.

"Uh-uh," Tony cut him off. "Listen to me here a minute. It's admirable and frankly odd and very un-teenager like that you're this concerned for school. The fact of the matter is that you're likely not going to recover in time to return before the school year ends. Not only that, it would be suspicious if you were to recover so quickly after the extent of your injuries."

Peter looked crestfallen, lowering his eyes to glare at the used tissues littering his lap. "So that's it, I'm going to have to repeat this school year?"

"I didn't say that," Tony answered. "May was going to talk to you about this later, but since you're already asking: your school is willing to work with you over the summer to complete the last few weeks of your classes. As long as you can finish your homework assignments and pass your exams before the fall semester, you'll still be on track for your Junior year."

"Really?" Peter couldn't help the hope that shone in his eyes. This wouldn't derail his life. He could come back from this.

"Really," Tony assured him. "Now, I have a boring business meeting to suffer through and you need to get more sleep."

The man was gone before Peter could fully form his protest. He stared at the open door and listened as his mentor disappeared down the hallway, through the infirmary doors, and into the elevator. The sounds of the infirmary obscured the departing elevator before it was finally lost to even Peter's sensitive hearing. With nothing else to do, the boy snuggled into his mound of pillows and let himself drift again.

"There is someone here to see you, Peter," the quiet voice of FRIDAY brought Peter fully back into the waking world. "If you would like, I can tell them you're sleeping."

Peter pushed himself up in bed a little bit more, gasping slightly at the soreness that still clung to him. He carefully pulled the oxygen mask down with his newly healed right hand before asking, "who is it?"

"It appears to be one of your classmates," the AI responded. "He instructed me to tell you that it is your 'guy in the chair who comes bearing gifts.'"

Peter laughed at Ned's introduction and instantly regretted it as pain lanced through his chest. The boy coughed harshly, scrabbling to get the nebulizer back over his nose and mouth as air was forcefully expelled from his lungs.

"Peter!" Dr. Cho jogged into his room, alerted to the spike in his vitals even though none of monitors had alarmed. She saw the problem immediately and lunged for the oxygen mask that still hung at his neck, snapping the instrument back in place as Peter continued to hack and gasp for breath

The teen sucked at the renewed oxygen flow for several minutes before he felt composed enough to give a shaky thumbs up. Dr. Cho seemed to relax slightly, but did not leave his side, body still tense and ready to jump into action. "It may be too early for you to have visitors. I don't want you putting more strain on your lungs than necessary."

"But I'm healing!" Peter protested from behind his mask. "Tony said you re-engineered the antibiotics and that I'm responding well."

Dr. Cho waited for him to finish gasping out his excuses before responding. "You are still recovering from pneumonia and I do not want to take the risk of you relapsing. Right now you are damn lucky that you have enhanced healing and aren't developing significant scar tissue. Your body and physiology are already overtaxed, I don't want you to push it any further."

Peter pouted up at her, eyes wide and pleading as he took a few purposeful deep breaths, "please, I haven't seen them since DC and I just want to see that they are okay and let them know that I'm okay. I promise I will keep the mask on the whole time and you can kick them out if anything goes wrong. Not that something will go wrong, but you know, it never hurts to have a backup plan. And did I already say please? Because if not, please."

The doctor rolled her eyes at Peter's puppy dog eyes and rambling. She honestly wasn't sure what was worse, this kid's complete lack of self-preservation or the way he managed to weasel into anyone's good graces. She deliberated for a moment, one eye watching Peter's increasing attempts to look innocent and healthy, and the other on his vitals as they slowly climbed back into the green. "Fine, 15 minutes. But I will kick them out if you so much as look like you're going to cough."

Peter practically beamed at her, hands bouncing excitedly in his lap.. "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!" he chanted quickly, looking disturbingly like he might hug her.

Dr. Cho took a strategic step back and out of arm's reach before setting a timer on her watch and calling out to FRIDAY, "you can send them in now."

"Of course," the AI replied. "I have already taken the liberty of directing them to your room." As the AI spoke the lock on the door audibly clicked back before the whole thing swung open. Ned stood just behind it, clutching his backpack to his chest and looking torn between awe, terror, and nervousness.

"Well don't just stand there," Dr. Cho beckoned him in. "You have 15 minutes, make them count."

Ned shuffled past the doctor and into the room, watching over his shoulder as the woman hurried out. He looked back at Peter with uncertainty, eyes tracing over the boy's body. It was almost as if he was cataloguing all of the injuries still visible. With a jolt, Peter realized that the last time his best friend had visited him, he had been unconscious and very scraped up.

"It's okay, Ned," Peter called softly. "It'll take a lot more than that to get rid of me."

Immediately, Peter could see that his joke fell flat. Tears welled up in his best friend's eyes, threatening to spill down his cheeks. Ned worried at his lower lip, visibly composing himself before he got up the courage to come closer to Peter's bed. "Hi," he mumbled softly.

"Sorry I ruined our trip," Peter apologized softly as Ned sat on the bed beside him, "again." And damn was he saying all the wrong things because Ned's expression immediately hardened.

"Peter, seriously," Ned snapped. "You have no clue what is like. Ms. Andrews was furious that you were left behind and kept saying that we needed to go back for you at the next stop. We were almost at the next station when the bomb went off and the train stopped. They had to evacuate us through the tunnels and we didn't know what was happening or where you were. And you wouldn't answer your phone. No one could find you. And then we had to wait at a restaurant for like hours before it was even confirmed that you were involved. And do you know how we found that out? We saw you on freaking TV being carried out by freaking Iron Man! We didn't know if you were even alive for like, two whole days!"

Peter could only stare at his friend as Ned worked himself into a panic. He didn't know what to say and so he did the only thing that came to his exhausted mind: he started crying.

Ned hiccuped loudly at his friend's tears before dissolving into his own, "holy frick noodles, you know I'm a sympathetic crier!" Ned nudged Peter's shoulder gently in indignation.

"What a pair of dorks." MJ's voice drifted over. Peter looked up, surprised to see her leaning against the door frame of his room. She blew a strand of hair out of her eyes and fixed them with an intense glare, arms crossed over her chest.

Slowly the two best friends blubbered into silence, passing a pack of tissues between them periodically. When their eyes and noses were finally dry, MJ pushed off of the doorway and flounced over to sit on Peter's other side.

"You do care," Ned smiled after she had settled in.

MJ rolled her eyes at him, "whatever." She turned from Ned to fix Peter with a softer stare, "Anyway, you should hurry up and heal already. Flash is trying to usurp your place on the team again."

"I'll, uh, take that up with my doctors," Peter promised, unsure how to respond. He fidgeted nervously with his blanket, hands carding against the soft fibers.

Ned sighed and clapped his hands over Peter's ears before leaning over him dramatically, "what did we talk about? You promised not to make him feel awkward!"

MJ shrugged and looked dismissively at her nails before polishing them on her shirt. She ignored Ned's indignant spluttering and reached for her messenger bag, extracting a copy of Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time. "If you want science," she offered.

She placed the book on Peter's bedside table and fished out the next offering, Virginia Woolf's A Room of One's Own. "If you want to feel empowered." She laid it haphazardly on top of the other book.

Next she picked up Night by Elie Wiesel. "If you want to feel sad," she explained. The book also went on the pile.

Lastly, she picked up a smaller book with a worn cover. Peter could make out the remnants of a sticker from Turn the Page Again used books. "If you want to laugh," MJ finished and plunked the book down on the rest of the pile. Peter could finally make out the title: Guards! Guards! by Terry Pratchett.

Peter stared at her, at the books, and then back again. He opened his mouth to ask her what and why when she cut him off.

"What?" MJ asked defensively. "You can barely sit still in class, I know you're going to get bored cooped up in here. Plus, we can't have you out of practice for decathlon."

Peter reached out to pick up the top book, turning it over to read the description on the back, "looks like fun." He smiled at MJ and knew not to make a big deal out of the books.

"Ooh! Ooh!" Ned exclaimed, stealing Peter's attention. He fished out a plastic tub from his backpack, popped off the top, and pulled out a fully assembled lego set.

"Dude!" Peter exclaimed, "are those the new Jurassic World sets?!"

"Yeah, they just released and dad got me some. You have to see the dinosaur minifigs!" Ned held out one of the raptor figures for Peter to take in his tired fingers.

"The detail is so awesome!" Peter eyes excitedly traced the mold of the piece.

"I saved the other one for us to put together when you're feeling better. It has lego Chris Pratt!" Ned promised.

"Heck yeah!" Peter laughed around a few stray coughs. "Do you think we can figure out a way to add this to the Batcave?"

"I hadn't thought of that, but why not?" Ned excitedly replied. Peter could tell from the way the other teen glanced off into space that he was already planning how to splice the sets together.

"Velociraptors and Batman, really?" MJ quirked a judgemental eyebrow.

"Why not?" Ned shot back. "Everything goes well with Batman."

Peter smiled at his friends, content for the moment to simply sit back and listen to them argue over the seemingly mundane and insignificant concerns of geeky teenage life. After everything that had happened, it was nice to know he still had friends like these. The boy drifted off to the sounds of their voices, barely even registering when they said their farewells and snuck out of his room.

* * *

 **It only took me 10 chapters to reunite the friends. Also apologies for the crappy chapter, I have had the interaction with Peter, MJ, and Ned completed for a while and needed to figure out how to connect it with the rest of the story. Also, I really just need to hammer something out this week so I can move on from this section. Hopefully someone out there likes this chapter.**

 **The books I chose for MJ all appear on multiple top 100 nonfiction books lists and cover subjects that I think fit the characters of Peter and MJ. The only exception is Guards! Guards! By Terry Pratchett which is a popular satire of the fantasy and police procedural/crime genres. I do have to admit that I am in love with Pratchett's Discworld series and will never pass up a moment to sneak them into anything I'm working on.**

 **For those wondering, my car only had slight damage that was easily repaired (mostly just upholstery that needed cleaning) so thank god for that. I'm really done with this storm season and hope that winter isn't going to suck.**

 **Chapter title: the title comes from Yehuda Amichai's poem "I Don't Know if History Repeats Itself" which mostly concerns the pain in Israel and Jerusalem and the tenuous peace of the Jew and Arabs. Amichai is widely accepted as the great modern poet of Isreal. The theme of reunification and war are why I chose it for this chapter.**


	12. Into the mouth of hell

Tony returned to the compound in a tired daze. Audrey Seymour, his publicist, had only just finished dragging him through the media craze of his first interview since the bombing. The journalist had seemed pleasant enough starting out that Tony was almost put at ease. Almost. He'd been famous long enough to know not to trust the media and how to handle himself in front of the camera. It was only this knowledge that kept the billionaire seemingly laid back when Christine Everheart, the anchor with WHiH World News, turned predatory. Like a shark catching the scent of blood, she honed in on Iron Man's reason for being in Washington DC and how he was connected to the Stark Industries intern he pulled from the rubble.

For his part, Tony managed to effortlessly deflect the more personal questions, talking in an emotional tone about his experiences in Iraq and with the Mandarin bombings. He'd let the world draw their own conclusions about his motivations, but if he sowed the seeds right, they would hopefully come back to his past experiences with terrorists and leave Peter alone. By the time the man was done with the half hour interview, he felt a nagging exhaustion that pulled at his emotional side more than the physical. With a few pleasantries and a reminder about positive editing, Tony left his publicist to handle the fallout and retreated to the compound.

"How did it go?" Pepper asked as Tony tripped into her office. She was perched on one of the plush armchairs set beside a low table. A large stack of papers and her tablet were spread out in front of her. He could see his interview open in one of the windows on the tablet.

"I think it wasn't a disaster. How did you think it went?" Tony asked, sinking into the seat opposite of her.

"You did good," Pepper answered after a moment. "You were composed and laid back, but emotional in all the right places. I'm sure Ms. Seymour was thrilled with your performance and Ms. Everheart seemed to be eating up everything you gave her. With some pointed publicity from our side, I think we may have a head start on this."

Tony beamed at his fiance. This was high praise coming from the woman who could seamlessly run his life and a multi-billion dollar company.

Pepper turned contemplative for a moment, looking over something on her Stark tablet before speaking again. "However, we still have work to do. Peter is going to end up in this situation no matter what we do. So I've been thinking up some schemes and working with our Marketing and R&D liaison and I want to debut a high school internship program for next academic year using Peter as the flagship poster child."

"Where is this coming from?" Tony asked.

"We need something to explain Peter's high connections with Stark Industries and why we have a high school intern when we currently only accept undergraduate and graduate interns," Pepper explained. "There's still a lot to be hammered out, but what do you think of the idea?"

"He's not going to like having his picture posted everywhere," Tony immediately countered, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I know," Pepper conceded. "But it's better that Peter be associated more with Stark Industries rather than with you personally."

"Alright, let's pretend for a minute that Peter agrees to this," Tony sat back, getting comfortable for what would likely be an involved conversation. "How are we going to make it look like he's been employed with SI?

"You're lucky I prepare for these things," Pepper sighed partially in fondness and partially in exasperation. "When you first brought Peter on board for an 'internship' I had HR get copies of his documents. We have his work permit, passport, emergency contact form, official internship offer, signed contract, and NDAs dating back to 2016. It's fortunate that he had already obtained most of the requisite documentation from the Department of Labor before you contacted him. HR was able to onboard him pretty quickly after Berlin and I have him listed on payroll as an intern since then."

"And out of all the brats that pester us constantly for internships, why him?" Tony followed up.  
"Because he's a local science prodigy who submitted schematics and research into a type of artificial webbing that can be used as a more advantaged compression bandage and topical antibacterial," Pepper replied evenly, scowling at the dumbfounded look on Tony's face. "Don't look at me like that, Friday showed me the files of what you two have been working on down in that lab of yours."

"You amaze me," Tony finally mumbled in awe.

"As I should," Pepper smiled. And damn Tony was always amazed at how she could make a predatory Cheshire grin seem so sweet and innocent. "And don't you forget it."

Tony thought over the proposal for a minute, absentmindedly stealing Pepper's still warm cup of coffee and gulping it down. "So what's the plan with the internship program?" he asked.

"We're looking to offer a range of STEM internships to high school students in their Junior and Senior years," Pepper pulled up the brief she was editing with the R&D and Marketing liaison for Tony to review. "This will mostly consist of administrative work and job shadowing after school on 1-2 weekdays and then all day on Saturdays. Students will see what working in the lab and office is like as an introduction to the industry. Interns who do well can be recommended by their department heads to the Stark Industries Scholarship Fund which will award 5-10 interns nationwide with a 4 year scholarship to earn a bachelor's degree in a STEM field."

"Wow," Tony whistled lowly. "You've really thought this through. So how are you going to use Peter as your mascot?"

"We're planning to release this to the press and our company newsletter in the next week and when we do, Peter's face will be all over it as our flagship intern," Pepper pulled up the pamphlet she had been working on. Tony could see the blank spaces where pictures were set to go and the testimonial that supposedly came from Peter. Pepper scrolled through the various designs for Tony to see before snagging the man's phone from his jacket pocket. "All we need now is a few pictures of Peter for the design team to edit. I know you have a couple of candid shots of him working in the lab."

"Hey!" Tony protested as Pepper unlocked his phone and scrolled through his pictures.

"Hush," Pepper admonished, "We need these to explain why Peter has connections so high up on SI. Plus, he's an adorable science nerd who's just begging to star in a series of science themed stock photos."

"Fine, but we're telling the kid this was 100% your idea," Tony grouched.

Pepper smiled coyly at him over his phone. "I don't know," she tapped in chin in thought, "we could say it was 12% your idea."

Tony groaned, "you are never letting that go."

"Nope. And you know you deserve it," Pepper insisted. "Now, which photos do you like best?"

"None of the ones with sensitive, identity-compromising tech. Or any of the ones that might possibly be construed as child endangerment by more strict minds," Tony conceded.

"Very funny, Tony," Pepper replied without looking up from the pictures. "Wait! Is he operating _welding equipment_?!"

"Maybe," Tony shrugged.

After nearly an hour of looking at pictures and reviewing the internship plan with Pepper, Tony finally was left to his own devices. The many made a beeline for his lab; there were projects calling his name and stress to work out through his hands.

Friday had already started his music and Tony walked in to a thrumming base that almost seemed to dictate the rhythm of his pulse. The prototype for the medical exoskeletons that Tony had been pitching since he designed a set for Rhodey was almost ready to be sent down to R&D for mass production. He just had to work out the last few kinks. The man was so focused on his task that it took him nearly two hours to notice the package sitting on one of his worktables. There was a note from Happy sitting on the top lid of the box. _This was delivered for you today._ _Everything is secure_ , it read.

His interest sufficiently piqued, Tony gave into his curiosity and wrestled the box open. Inside was a dusty and torn backpack. The billionaire was sure that the bag had once been black, but now it was so covered in concrete dust and crusty brown spots - Tony was fairly certain the spots were old blood - that the color was no longer distinguishable. There was a crisply folded note attached to the top flap and Tony carefully extracted it. He unfolded it and flipped it right-side up to read the flowing words in impeccable penmanship, _Thought you might appreciate this. Try to be more careful._

Tony carefully re-folded the note and laid it to the side. He stared at the backpack lying in the box for a few minutes before pushing off with his chair to sail across his lab space. He came to a jerky stop in front of one of his workbenches and rummaged in a tool drawer before finally finding what he was looking for. "Aha," the billionaire smiled to himself as he snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves. He pushed off again to roll across the room and grab the box on his way. He stepped off the chair as it wheeled past the table he wanted, leaving the now unoccupied chair to crash harshly into the wall. With great care, he set the box down onto the slightly recessed work space. The area was sterile and included a small vacuum in one of the trays for any debris that he might need to clear out of the way.

"Alright, what are you?" Tony asked as he carefully unzipped the first pocket. Dust and crusted blood fell off of the backpack as he manipulated it open to reveal a mess of cords. The man removed those and set them aside in a clear box. He labeled the box with the location that the objects were found before pushing that aside and pulling another empty box towards him. The second pocket was much deeper and the zipper completely torn off so the compartment gaped open with the ragged edges sinking in on themselves. Tony moved the shredded canvas aside to start digging through the contents of the pocket when he realized exactly what he had in his hands. From the hopelessly torn interior, the man pulled several textbooks on the US government, a slew of folders, and a 6 subject notebook in which someone had carefully colored Avengers symbols on every divider. He flipped through the damaged notebook, ignoring loose leafs of paper as they fell from the book and floated down to the worktable. Haphazard notes filled front and back of almost every page, recording class lectures, formulas, bored doodles, and several cheesy one-liner ideas.

And if Tony hadn't already guessed it somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew now. This was Peter's backpack, these were his school things mangled by a terrorist attack and covered in dust and blood. He wanted to throw the whole bag away from him in disgust and pretend that this wasn't the remnants of a teen's normal life turned upside-down by a momentarily cruel attack that would hold a lifetime of repercussions.

The man stumbled over to his abandoned chair, sinking into it until his elbows rested on his knees. Christ, he wished this had never happened. In his not inconsiderably short time as a hero, Tony had seen a lot of things that haunted his dreams. He had fought aliens, terrorists, his own team and had been witness to the destruction of battle. He had helped clean up afterwards, the toll of civilian casualties and the sheer mass of collateral damage not something that he could ever forget. And this newest bombing would be just another thing to haunt him. Tony slumped into his chair, leaning back to look at the ceiling of his lab, now was not the time to indulge in the ever-spiraling guilt and anxiety of his mind. There would be time for doubts and fears later; right now, he had work to do.

With a world-weary sigh, the man rose from his chair and pushed it back into the general direction of where it normally sat. "Friday!" he hollered, striding across his lab with the swiftness that purpose brought. "Start my 'life is hard' playlist."

As ACDC blared at migraine inducing levels, the man switched hats from superhero and concerned mentor, to scientist. With care and methodical attention to detail, he catalogued the contents of the backpack, ignoring the dirt and debris clinging to what felt like every surface. Finally, the kid's possessions were recovered, processed, and labeled. Tony turned the bag over, scrutinizing it for anything he might have missed. Some haphazard stitching at the bottom right side of the bag caught his eye. It looked like there had been a tear that Peter tried to sew back together. He reached into the compartment to probe around the tear. "Hang on a minute," Tony mumbled to himself softly as his probing fingers came in contact with a small bulge. He looked into the bag to see that the lining of the backpack had also been torn and sewn back together. Tony tugged on the stitches experimentally and the lining began to pull away. Carefully, Tony ripped out the lining, watching as the fabric pulled away. With the lining out of the way, the billionaire could see the familiar red and blue suit buried beneath.

And, ah hell, this kid had actually sewn a false bottom into his backpack to hide his suit. Tony would have laughed at the sheer comic book levels Peter had gone too if it wasn't for the wave of relief that passed over him. In the furor of extracting the kid from the metro station and the subsequent fallout of his injuries, Tony had completely forgot to check whether or not Peter had taken his suit with him. This whole situation could have proved disastrous for all of them had emergency services discovered the suit and put two-and-two together.

The man carefully pulled the suit and backup web-shooters from the bag and laid it out on the table. The compartment seemed to be padded and though the stitching had been haphazard, it was tight enough to keep the suit remarkably clean and undamaged compared to the rest of the bag's contents. After a moment of staring at the multi-million dollar piece of clothing, Tony shook it out and carefully folded it into a neat pile. When the time was right, Peter might want it back.

"Friday?!" Tony called over the blaring rock music.

The music lowered to conversational level before the AI responded, "yes boss?"

"Send a gift basket to Anne-Marie Hoag," he instructed. If there was anyone in the world who would know enough to have a high school kid's backpack bypass evidence, it was that woman. Lord knows she had cleaned up behind him enough to know what she was looking for.

The AI chirped in recognition, "What type would you like to send?" Friday asked.

"I dunno," grunted Tony. "Maybe chocolate or cookies or whatever women like."

"May I suggest getting Ms. Pott's input?" Friday suggested.

"Yeah, do that," Tony nodded. After a moment's consideration he tacked on, "and let her know it's for a professional thank you gift."

"Of course," Friday answered.

Tony set aside the kid's stuff and went to work cataloguing and troubleshooting any damage to Peter's suit. It was nearing four in the morning when he finally finished triple checking the suit and systems for damage. He should probably get some sleep, but the exoskeletons were almost done. Just a few more hours and he could send it off tp R&D.

The sounds of machinery nearly overpowered his rock music as the man set into work. Time seemed to stand still as his hands flew over his work. He tweaked coding, smoothed out jerky movements, and streamlined the finished product down into something that marketing would no doubt label "sleek" and "stylish". While Tony understood the permanency of brands and the importance of keeping up appearances, it never ceased to amaze him how marketing could take a simple object and spin it into something that could practically cure cancer by just being in the same room as the client. It was almost as if they thought the sun shone out of Stark Industries metaphorical ass. Tony snorted at that image, amused with his own joke.

Finally, the man felt like his product was mostly finished. He stepped back to look over his work, wiping his hands on a rag more out of habit than the actual state of his hands as he circled the machine he had built.

The music faded into the background a few seconds before Friday could be heard, "I'm sorry to interrupt, boss, but Ms. Potts is requesting you in her office for a conference call."

"Conference call?" Tony asked. "I don't remember anything being scheduled for today outside my progress meeting with R&D."

"Ms. Potts says this is urgent," for an AI, Friday sounded almost wary.

Tony sighed, "alright, tell her I'll be right there." The man threw his rag down on the desk behind him and reached for the jacket he had thrown in the general direction of his coat rack. Showing up to a meeting in an Aperture science hoodie was not the most professional thing but it beat the sweat stained white undershirt he liked to wear in the lab.

Pepper was waiting for him just inside her office, looking up expectantly when he knocked on her partially open door. "Tony, good, come in."

The billionaire swept into the room, making a beeline for his favorite armchair. "What's this nonsense about a conference call?"

Pepper looked up at him, disappointment pinching her face into a grimace when she saw his feet up on her coffee table. She clucked in reproach at him before standing and smoothing her pencil skirt out. "There's a call for us, but it would be better if I let him tell you," she explained as she clicked a remote in the direction of the screen.

"Hey Tones," Rhodey greeted him from the large monitor hanging on the far wall of the office.

The man in question glanced up at the screen in surprise, "Rhodey?! What's going on? This is unusual for you."

"Sorry for the last minute notice and the secrecy, but I needed a secure and encrypted connection," Rhodey explained. "I'm not supposed to tip you off about this until the legal courier can deliver all of the documents to your lawyer, but Ross has convinced the Accords to open an investigation."

"Well that sucks," Tony swore. Pepper glared at him but the man just shrugged, too tired and too experienced to apologize for his personality. "Do you know what their angle is?"

"This isn't coming from me," the colonel began. "But it's a joint investigation from the Accords and the UN Office of Internal Oversight Services. They should be requesting access to documentation concerning your internship hiring, intelligence operatives, financial data concerning any correlation between Iron Man activities and SI stock prices, as well as any documents that might hint towards your personal motivations for intervening in this situation."

"Bull. Shit." Tony immediately called. "That's more than just an investigation into one relatively minor incident on my resume. This sounds more like a political witch hunt."

Rhodey sighed, "You're probably right. Ross has it out for you right now and he's using that police officers complaint to justify an investigation."

"This is already a media circus," Tony gesture wildly in the direction of New York City. "The last thing we need is to pour more fuel on that fire. What is Ross thinking?"

"Likely that this is an opportunity to use the heightened emotions surrounding such a shocking tragedy in order to get heavier regulations against enhanced individuals." Rhodey's shoulders were squared in anger and his tone indignation as he continued, "you know he won't stop until he has a complete registry for enhanced individuals."

"That's just great, this is the last thing we need," Tony spat out.

"Boys!" Pepper called, intervening in what was becoming a rapidly spiraling anger session. "I agree that this situation is absurd, but right now we need to plan, not yell."

"You're right," Rhodey capitulated, allowing a long sigh to release the tension in his body.

Tony rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to quell a rapidly developing headache. "Alight, so what's our best bet?"

"Right now?" his best friend stopped to think a moment. "I would advise complete transparency and compliance. Go along with their demands, provide the information they want and then some. According to everything I know about the legal structure of the Accords you haven't technically breached them. You are in complete compliance with their security requirements and as such are not prohibited from taking action in your home country, even without authorization; as I'm sure you already know."

"Great, give their greedy government grab hands whatever they want," Tony mumbled. "That sound like so much fun."

Both Pepper and Rhodey scowled at the sarcasm apparent in his voice. "Tony," the colonel sighed, "I know this isn't going to be fun, but it's your best shot at this. If it looks like you're evasive or trying to hide things, the panel is likely going to think that you had ulterior motives in this situation."

Tony waved a dismissive hand, "I know. But just because it's my best option doesn't mean I have to like it."

"Fair enough," Rhodey nodded in understanding. "I'm assuming you've thought of a cover story for Peter?"

Tony spluttered at the direct question. "How the hell do you know about Peter?"

"Tony, he's not exactly subtle," Rhodey explained. "I knew as soon as I met him out of uniform. His voice is very distinctive."

"Well, shit," Tony mumbled. He really needed to get that kid acting lessons, and a better voice modulator.

"You got nothing to worry about, man," his friend assured him. "There's no way in hell I'll give the kid up to Ross. In fact, I'm going to do whatever I can to keep him out of this situation."

Tony nodded, "I appreciate that. And yeah, Pepper's got his cover story sorted."

Pepper stepped into view more, one hand on her hip and the other looking over a proof pamphlet for the internship program. "The unofficial story is that Peter was onboarded to the company in 2016 to protect his intellectual property, inventions, identity, and the tech he was given as Stark Industries assets. The official line is that he was hired on in 2016 after submitting some truly remarkable research to our R&D department and has stood in as a trial intern for our High School internship program that is launching in September and will be announced later this week. Peter Parker will stay on our payroll as an ambassador and liaison for that program moving forward."

"That's actually a really good cover story," Rhodey admitted to Pepper. He eyed the displayed pamphlet with interest for a moment before turning to Tony, "You need to marry that woman, man." Rhodey's voice was serious even if he couldn't hide the broad smile on his face.

"I'm working on it," Tony assured. "And thanks for the heads up."

"You take care of yourself, Tones." Rhodey instructed. "I can't contact you again until your lawyers have been informed of the investigation. Officially that is. Don't hesitate to call me if you need something."

"Will do," the billionaire agreed. "And thanks, Rhodey. You didn't have to do this."

"Of course I did," Rhodey argued. "You better believe I wouldn't pass up a chance to save your ass again."

"That's very sweet of you," Pepper smiled at him. "Is there anything else for now?"

"No, that was it," Rhodey told her. "You be sure to keep him out of trouble for the next week while I deal with this, yeah?"

"Always," Pepper agreed. She waved at the man as he said his goodbyes and cut the connection.

When the screen was once again dark, Tony leaned forward with a heavy sigh. Could they never catch a break? Couldn't they have just one month without the world being on fire and the government mad that they brought a superpowered water cannon to this metaphorical fire since the metaphorical firemen were punching above their weight class? And man, did Tony need some sleep if that was the analogy his brain was coming up with.

A hand settled on his back and Tony jerked upright to see Pepper perched the arm of his chair. She leaned in close enough that her hair fell like a current over Tony's face. "We'll get through this," she whispered in his ear.

"I hope so," Tony mumbled back, resting his head on his fiance's cheek. "I really do."

The two stayed cuddled together for a while, basking in each other's presence amidst the turmoil of their shared wished the world could stay like this with Peter safe and Pepper by his side. He knew it was probably a foolish wish given their line of work, but he wished for it nonetheless.

Finally, Pepper pulled away. Her hand lingered on his back for a minute more before she let it fall. Tony watched her return to her desk, partially disappointed that the moment was over and partly appreciating the view in front of him. Once back at her desk, the woman shuffled some papers around before finding the one she was looking for. "Are you planning on visiting Peter soon?"

"Why do you ask?" Tony wondered.

Pepper glanced up at him a minute, catching his eye purposefully, "I was hoping you could send May to see me regarding the internship story. I'll be meeting with HR tomorrow concerning it and I would like to talk with her first. Maybe set something up for tomorrow morning if that fits her schedule."

"Yeah," Tony replied, already rising from his chair. "Can do."

The man straightened his hoodie before slouching from her office. After a quick detour to the kitchen for some heavenly coffee, he trudged up to the infirmary.

Tony found May standing silently outside of Peter's room. "I figured I'd find you here," the billionaire called out as he neared her.

May nodded, "I just had to step out a moment to take a call."

"Anything fun?" Tony asked. He knew that prying into her personal business wasn't the most tactful of decisions, but he had nearly exhausted all topics of small talk with this woman over the course of the last few weeks.

"It was the Human Resources department at my company, they want me to go in and work on some paperwork for the FMLA I've requested," May explained quietly to Tony, not taking her eyes off of where Peter was been attended to by his nurses. For once, she didn't seem reluctant to share the details of her personal life. The man wondered if it was because she was too worn to hide the more inconsequential things.

Tony nodded, "do you think there will be any issues?" The man had never fully grasped the ins and outs of low level office life. When he had run a multi-billion dollar corporation, Pepper had taken care of most of the nuts and bolts of the job. And now that he headed the Research and Development department of Stark Industries when he wasn't running the Avengers, Tony just didn't have to deal with silly things like HR. He had lawyers for that.

"I don't know," May shrugged. "I'm just hoping that they don't force me to use my PTO hours to cover the last few weeks, I was saving those up to take Peter somewhere nice for Christmas break."

"I can send a lawyer with you in case they give you trouble," Tony offered. He was sure they had at least one HR attorney on retainer that Stark Industries wouldn't miss for a day.

"No," May replied more vehemently than Tony expected. The woman visibly recoiled from her tone before tacking on a hasty, "You've already done so much for us and it's not that I don't appreciate the offer, but I can handle my own affairs. My company isn't heartless and I have a lot of banked time off so if I have to use it, it won't be the end of the world. We'll just have to cut the Christmas trip short. Speaking of which, Peter doesn't know that I'm planning on taking him anywhere yet, so don't say anything to him!"

Tony held up his hands in placation, trying to fend off the accusatory words, "Please, I am the definition of discretion."

May looked doubtful but thankfully didn't say anything more. They stood in silence for several minutes, watching as the nurses worked to change the last of the bandages. Peter's cuts and scrapes had all been replaced by new skin, the puncture wound to his left elbow had completely closed, and even the hole in his head where the ICP monitor had been inserted was gone. Only a small patch of hair shorter than the rest showed where it had been. The lacerated wound on his left hip had healed slower than the rest of the boy's injuries, but with a little help from Dr. Cho, new skin had filled in the space to the point that Tony couldn't even tell there had ever been a gaping injury there.

"He heals so fast," May commented, seeming to read his mind. "I never thought I would be this grateful for his powers."

Tony nodded in response, "he's a tough kid with a good heart. I'm honestly glad it was someone like him that would end up with these enhancements. He understands responsibility better than anyone his age that I've ever met. Which, admittedly isn't a great number."

May smiled at him, "I don't care if I'm biased, but I think he's the best kid I ever could have asked for. And I'm glad you see that in him too."

Tony wasn't sure how to respond to that, sure he liked the kid and was generally protective of him and interested in his future, but he wasn't just going to talk about his feelings. He was already co-parenting Peter enough, he didn't need to add a conversation about the warm fuzzies with the kid's other parent. The billionaire cleared his throat after an uncomfortable pause, "Well, that's enough of the heart-to-heart stuff, I can't have this ruining my trademarked reputation."

"Of course," May answered like she could see straight through him. Hell, she probably could. "Whatever you say."

"Anyway," Tony changed the subject. "I actually came up here to talk to you."

"Oh?" May asked.

"What time is your meeting with HR?" he asked.

"Tomorrow afternoon," May answered. "I'm planning on stopping by the apartment afterwards and getting it cleaned up for Peter. Helen said he should be ready to be released in the next week or so."

Tony looked back at where the teen squirmed in his bed. He knew the kid had been healing fast, but to be released back to home care just three weeks after nearly dying in a terrorist attack was ridiculous. The man was honestly hoping he would stay at the compound for the duration of his convalescence. That way Tony could have kept an eye on him the entire time. But his rational side kept telling him that he was being ridiculous and overprotective, and was way too busy with work and a political firestorm to provide adequate care for an injured teenager. Tony shook himself from his thoughts to turn back to his conversation with May, "If you have time tomorrow morning, Stark Industries HR wanted to talk with you about offering Peter a paid internship position. And before you accuse me of trying to throw money at the situation, Pepper and I are planning to use this position to help shield him from the Accords investigation."

May's head snapped up at that and she fixed Tony with a glare that was partly accusatory, but mostly scared. "What investigation?"

Tony looked off to the side, "I'm not supposed to spread this around until my lawyers receive the official word from Ross' office, but it looks like there's going to be an inquiry into my actions at the DC metro bombing."

May gasped, a hand flying to cover her mouth, "seriously?"

"Unfortunately," Tony grimaced in reply. "We're doing everything we can to keep Peter out of this and part of that is to give him a plausible cover for his connections to me and Stark Industries. We won't be able to shield him completely, but I'm hoping we can divert the attention back to me."

"What do I do?" the woman asked in a small voice, expression uncertain and hands twisting the hem of her cardigan nervously.

"For right now, go about your life as normally as you can. Pepper will meet with you off the record tomorrow morning before HR comes to talk to you; she'll be able to answer more of your questions then and give you a game plan moving forward," Tony answered.

"What if they drag him into this?" May asked, absentmindedly chewing on her bottom lip. "We're not ready to go public yet."

"Hey," Tony interjected softly. He bent at his knees slightly to catch May's downcast eyes. "We'll get through this."

"You don't know that," May spat back, anger and pain weighing heavily on her face. "So far we've managed to BS our way through this whole situation but our luck is going to run out. And when it does, Peter has the most to lose. God, this is why I didn't want him mixed up in the superhero business so young. He's not even old enough to legally sign the Accords for himself."

"Trust me, I know," Tony replied. "But right now he needs both of us on the same page. The only way we're going to get him through this is if we work together."

"I hope you're right about this, Tony," May finally responded. "For Peter's sake, you better be right."

* * *

 **Ah shit, what the hell am I even doing. I went from one field I don't understand, but have a toe dipped in to another field I don't understand but have my toe dipped in. I have a degree in history, not political science, and here I am adding political intrigue into my story. God help me, I have no clue what I'm doing with my life or this story anymore. This thing really took on a life of its own. But oh well, I wanted to write something more realistic and that included medical recovery, emotional recovery, and apparently dealing with the damn government.**

 **For the record, the only government experience I have is one summer I spent interning at a defense contracting company where I mostly managed expense reports and researched shit. So I at least know a little bit about how to read inspector general reports and write press releases announcing proposal acquisitions, but seriously I interned for ONE summer. It's not like I actually have real experience in this field. Just, shoot me now.**

 **Please forgive the unedited state of this chapter and the massive blocks of dialogue. I tried to add some interesting things, but this chapter is mostly logistics, and dialogue. So much dialogue.**

 **Also, please excuse my portrayal of Tony's overly dramatic internal rumination. I like repetition, and exposition, and details. Lots of details. Seriously, just screw me with a rusty spoon now cause I'm getting lost in my own story. This thing is small novel length right now. I could have written a novel. Guys, I think I need help.**

 **Chapter title: comes from a line of Alfred Tennyson's poem "The Charge of the Light Brigade." The poem is based off of a very famous charge by the British light cavalry at the Battle of Balaclava during the Crimean War that occurred just six weeks prior to the publication of the poem. This charge is referred to as the Charge of the Light Brigade and was just as devastating as the poem depicts, the British suffered massive casualties without making any gains on the Russian line. And, just as the poem depicts, the cavalrymen carried out their orders even though the end result was inevitable and the officer who gave them those orders died within the first minute of the charge. While this poem was meant to highlight the bravery and steadfastness of these men in the midst of certain death (incidentally, the Crimean War was really the first conflict where soldiers and the military were looked at in a positive light. In much of the 18th and early 19th centuries, soldiers were generally considered ruffians and mercenaries) and that doesn't necessarily fit the tone of this chapter, I decided to include it because of the political minefield Tony is getting ready to enter.**


	13. Tho' it were ten thousand mile

Peter sat propped up against his pillow, staring vacantly out the window at the foggy grounds. He finally had enough strength and coordination to walk short distances by himself, but right now, he just couldn't bring himself to move. Some part of his mind had convinced the rest of him that he was too exhausted and his body was too heavy to attempt anything other than existing on top of this heap of bedding.

He was so tired, and even though the physical exhaustion was finally leaving him, a bone deep emotional exhaustion was setting in. Peter bounced between feeling depressed, feeling grateful, and just feeling numb, like his emotions were one of those garrish pinball machines that he used to play at the little arcade Ben had introduced him to. It was more the quick change between moods rather than the emotions themselves that really drained him. Increasingly, he found himself a prisoner to his inner thoughts and memories. In moments like these, when he was left to his own devices and had the motivation to do nothing more than stare out the window, he found himself wondering how could 12 people have died on his school trip? Just like that, gone? And how was he still alive in the face of it all? How had he survived when they had not?

Peter could only vaguely remember bits and pieces from the explosion itself, like snapshots from a bad dream. Mostly he just remembered an impression of pain and all-encompassing panic. What happened afterwards, however, he remembered in horrifying clarity. In the middle of watching a movie, he would blink and see Marie's bloody face drawn in panic in his mind's eye. He would be reading one of MJ's books in his wheelchair by the window, watching the swirling wind when an afterimage of concrete dust and the sound of a woman's cries invaded his mind. What killed him was that these thoughts were not obsessive. He didn't sit in bed morosely turning over every detail of what happened to him, he was actually trying to get better and focus on catching up on school. But these impressions of memories intruded on him out of the blue and trapped the teen in a swirl of emotion and he didn't know how to make them stop.

And that was how Peter found himself with his body in bed and his mind trapped in the helplessness of a Washington DC metro station. Intellectually, he knew that he was in upstate New York, lounging in the Avengers' Infirmary. But no matter how hard he tried to rely on reason, his mind screamed at him that he was trapped and alone and couldn't save himself.

"Ah, kiddo," a voice filtered through his haze.

Peter didn't look up as someone crossed from his doorway to the side of his bed. He rubbed his right hand back and forth across his blanket clad thigh, remembering the feeling of a skinned palm running over the fabric of his ruined jeans. Back and forth. Back and forth. The blanket fabric pilled beneath his fingers. Hot tears pricked at the corner of his eyes and Peter desperately fought against letting them fall for the second time that day.

A hand clasped his shoulder and Peter started slightly at the sudden contact. At his flinch, the hand immediately pulled off his shoulder. A tense pause fell over the room before the bed dipped down next to Peter. "It's okay, Peter," Tony's voice spoke softly. "You're in the Avengers facility. You're safe."

Peter nodded, staring down at his lap as his tears fell and his mind spiraled. Tony kept repeating his line like a mantra as the teen breathed through the worst of his panic.

"Alright, kiddo," the man's voice took a gentle but commanding edge. "I know this is scary, but I need you to work with me here. Pick something in the room and focus on it and only it."

Peter's eyes roved about as his mind and spidey senses screamed danger! The IV stand caught his attention as the sunlight glinted off the metal. He watched the metal shining in the light.

"Good," Tony seemed to sense his focus. "Now tell yourself where you are. You are in New York, in your bed. There's nothing here that will hurt you."

The teen nodded as he repeated the truth in his head. His stuttering breath caught on his inhale and without thinking, Peter let out a slow exhale, feeling tension leaking out of him. He breathed in and out as slowly as he could.

Finally, the grip of panic loosened. The teen looked up at his mentor, unable to meet the man's eyes. "I'm okay," his voice sounded unbelievably small even to his own ears. The tears that had been falling silently turned into sobs as Peter choked on the lump in his throat and the overwhelming crash of sadness and exhaustion that followed the struggle with his own mind. He tipped forward until his forehead thudded to a halt against Tony's sternum, just over where his arc reactor had been years before. Despite how embarrassing this situation would most certainly be when Peter had recovered, right now he needed every ounce of comfort he could get.

"I want my life back, Mr Stark. Please, just give me my life back," Peter whispered into the man's chest.

"I know it doesn't feel like it now, but you will get your life back," Tony promised, trying to figure out what to do with the limpet of a teenager that was clinging to him.

"I'm sorry," Peter sniffled and pulled away, trying to get his hiccuping sobs under control.

"No, no. It's okay," Tony assured, resting one hand on top of Peter's head in a way that reminded the boy painfully of Uncle Ben. The hand dropped from his head to slip around his shoulders and pull him in for a tight one-armed hug. "We're there, kid."

Peter nodded against Tony's shoulder, trying and failing to wipe the tears from his face. "I'm sorry," he repeated.

"Don't apologize. It's okay to hurt," the billionaire shushed him. "And this is majorly hypocritical coming from me, but it's okay to need help."

After a moment of slowly quieting sobs, Peter sat upright, breaking their contact. He leaned into his pillows and tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling.

"You good?" Tony asked, pulling away to give the teen some room.

"Yeah, Mr. Stark," Peter answered. "And, um, thanks, I guess. For, you know, everything."

A rueful smile tugged at the corners of Tony's mouth at Peter's eloquence, or lack thereof would be more accurate. Peter fidgeted with his pillows, trying to find a spot that was comfortable as much as he was giving his mind something else to focus on. After his awkward embarrassment had finally begun to fade, he felt brave enough to venture a cheeky, "so what brings you to my cell today?"

"What, visiting you isn't reason enough?" the billionaire asked with raised eyebrows and a sardonic tone. "Don't sell yourself short, kid. On my list of things I actually want to see to today, you are solidly in between paperwork and coffee."

Peter threw one of his pillows at him.

Easily ducking the oncoming projectile, Tony let the pillow sail over his head to smack into the wall behind him. He tsked slightly at the sight of the newly cleaned, hypoallergenic pillowcase on the floor and shook his head in mock chastisement. "Just for that," he muttered, resting one hand on his hip, "I'm letting you pick it up."

Peter shrugged, it wasn't like one of the nurses wouldn't come and make him get out of bed soon anyway. The small amount of satisfaction and happiness throwing that pillow had brought him was worth any physical torture - er, exercise - he would suffer later. Silence fell over the room long enough to make Peter nervous again. He fidgeted with the edge of his blanket and asked "Seriously, though, is something up?"

"Two things," Tony began. "First, I wanted to drop this off for you."

The man held up a very cracked Stark phone that had definitely seen better days. He gingerly set the handset down on Peter's bedside table when the boy didn't immediately move to take it. "Metro PD finally released it from evidence and I had it sent back. Before you ask, no they didn't break my encryption and see your countless Spiderman selfies."

"Photojournalism," Peter countered sullenly. He made decent money off of those things, it wasn't just a vanity project.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," Tony responded. "I just figured you might want it back. If the internet is to be believed, your generation is practically glued to the things anyway."

Peter shrugged his shoulders slightly, grateful that the movement no longer caused anything to throb with pain. He looked over at the phone for a minute. Someone had obviously cleaned it up because there wasn't a speck of dirt, dust, or blood clinging to the case. While part of him wanted to give into his curiosity and see if anyone had been messaging him, another part of him was scared to find out what was on that phone. Peter looked away. "You said there was another thing?" he asked.

"Right," Tony tried to hide his grimace. "I wanted to talk with you about the possibility of seeing a counselor."

"Oh?" Peter squeaked at the suggestion, not sure what to make of it.

"I keep my personal therapist on retainer in case any of the Avengers need someone to talk to. He's good with our line of work. We, that is mostly May who guilted me into having this conversation with you by the way, she is a damn persuasive spitfire. Anyway, where was I?" the billionaire asked.

Peter wasn't sure if this was for affect or to put him at ease, but he answered anyway, "therapist."

"Right," Tony nodded. "We think it would be good for you to talk to a professional. If you would like, I can arrange for my therapist to come and talk to you before you go home. You don't have to keep talking with him if you don't hit it off, I know how important it is to find a counselor you can work well with."

"Okay," Peter agreed.

"Okay, just like that?" Tony asked, eyebrows quirking up in surprise. "No arguing? No teenage angsting?"

Peter shook his head. "Nope."

"Well alright, I'll get with May and Helen," Tony mumbled as he checked something on his phone. He started for the door before turning back at the last minute, "You're doing the right thing here, kid."

"Thanks, Mr. Stark," Peter called after the retreating figure.

The teen lay still for several minutes after the man left, staring at the ceiling above his bed. He could practically feel the phone setting by his bedside glaring at him. Before all of this happened, he would have already given in to his curiosity. But right now something was holding him back. Peter wasn't sure if it was fear or depression keeping his natural curiosity suppressed and frankly, he didn't care.

Letting loose a long-suffering sigh, the boy levered himself up and collected the books lying on the bedside table next to his phone. If he was going to have another internal angst fest, he might as well try to be productive about it. His English teacher had assigned a worksheet on different poem structures; he could at least angst at that.

It took Peter nearly two days of pointedly ignoring the occasionally chirping phone next to him before his curiosity finally overrode his trepidation. He managed to restrain himself throughout the morning torture session of exercises, multiple nurse visits, and May's failed attempts to help him with his calculus homework before Peter was left to his own devices. As soon as the door to his room clicked shut behind May, his phone was in his hand and the familiar lock screen glared up at him. Though the screen had been badly damaged, Peter was still able to read most of it.  
The teen held his breath and unlocked the phone. Immediately, notification after notification flooded in. Overwhelmed by all the messages and the near constant buzzing of his phone, Peter laid the handset on the bed and waited for it to finish processing everything.

His friends and classmates had blown up his phone in the weeks that he had been recuperating. Most were asking if he was alright and what had happened in that metro station, but he only recognized a few of the numbers. The others were listed as unknown, no names given. Peter wondered how most of the school seemed to have found his number; probably from one of his geek acquaintances who sold out his privacy for some popularity points. He scrolled through the unread messages, deleting those from numbers he didn't know and the kids who likely didn't care whether he lived or died. Peter knew that he must be the main exhibit at some macabre side show for everyone at school to be texting him and asking how he was doing. The teen certainly wasn't going to feed into that nonsense.

With a small sigh, Peter turned to the contacts he did recognize, smiling as the well-wishes of true friends flooded his phone. There was even a text from Flash: 'Hey Parker, just cheking to c if u died xx'.

The boy couldn't help the bark of laughter that escaped at the message and even though it caused a throbbing twinge through his left side, Peter had no regrets. He quickly tapped out a reply: 'can't keep a good man down, not that you would know anything about being good or a man' followed by an absurd amount of slightly suggestive emojis. There was a small part of Peter that felt bad for being vindictive over a message that was probably Flash's best attempt at concern and another that didn't care about the social suicide he just committed. After all, what could the bully really do in the grand scheme of things, blow him up? Peter smiled in morbid satisfaction.

With that taken care of he finally tapped on the conversation he had been looking for; the group chat between him, Ned, and MJ looked fit to burst. Peter scrolled through with rapt attention, watching time turn back as their slightly joking messages about how much school he was missing turned into a heck ton of memes which turned into worried questions about his recovery, before finally morphing into frantic texts begging him to be alive and away from danger. The teen had to stop before he reached the timestamp of the actual attack and the ensuing minutes (or was it hours? Peter really wasn't sure) that he spent buried alive with a dying woman. His shaking hands navigated away from the group chat to check the dozens of missed calls. Most were from a combination of Ned and May, but he could see a few from MJ, Tony, and Ms. Andrews. It looked like he even had one from the school's administrative office. For a moment, Peter could just imagine the absurdity if he had picked up a call from Principal Morita while pinned under several tons of concrete. At least that would have been an excuse for getting separated from his class and teacher that even the stern principal couldn't ignore. A notification on the call screen let Peter know that his voice messages were full. He scrolled through the list, noting who had called and how long the messages were. There was one from the principal and Peter tapped on it curiously. Sound began to filter through the damaged speakers, crackling and spitting static overtop of the message, 'Mr. Parker, this is Principal Morita. I just received a call from your teacher that you were separated from your class during the ongoing situation in Washington. As soon as you get this call and are safe to do so, please contact me or Ms. Andrews to let us know where you are. I promise that you will not be in any trouble. We are worried for your safety and just want to make sure that you are alright. I have already contacted your legal guardian Mrs. Parker to let her know of the situation. Please be safe and return my call as soon as you are able.'

The message ended with a beep, prompting Peter to save or delete it. The teen sat and stared at this phone, ignoring the insistent instructions by the smooth, feminine voice. Eventually the phone announced, "message saved for the 21 days. Next message," before continuing on with the saved messages. This time the sound of someone crying, background voices chattering, and the hi-pitched tone of sirens clattered through the speakers in a burst of static and a shrill whine. The message kept going for nearly 2 minutes, just the sound of chaos before it disconnected and his answering service again prompted him to save or delete it. This time Peter chose to delete the message and move on to the next without a second prompt. Static once again crackled before a voice filtered through, it took Peter a moment to realize that is was MJ, "You better be alive Peter, we just saw Iron Man bring you out and it doesn't look good. Ned isn't responding, he's practically catatonic, and no one can get a hold of you. Ms Andrews just came back in tears. So, just be alive, loser. I mean, I will resurrect you if I have to just to beat your sorry ass for dying and - no, you know what. Just forget it. Come home alive and forget this."

The phone fell from Peter's numb fingers to his lap, still playing the automated message from the answering service. MJ's voice had sounded raw, even through the damaged speakers and hissing static. It sounded like she was devastated, scared, and had aged a decade in just the time between that fateful Saturday morning and when she had left the message. It was a sound that he never thought he would hear from the snarky, self-confident girl. And now that he had heard it, he never wanted to hear it again. Peter couldn't bear to hear the rest. He saw the timestamps and the frequency and just knew that most of those messages would be frantic attempts from his family and friends to get in touch with him. And he would know - with startling and depressing clarity - he would know exactly where he was and what was happening when those calls were made. There was a message from Tony right after his outgoing had ended. Peter knew that in the moment of that missed call, he had been begging Marie to hold on just a bit longer. There was a message from Ned around the time that he was being dug out of the debris. And there were several messages from May throughout the whole time he must have been in surgery. The answering machine announced the next message and Peter dove for his phone, managing to turn the whole thing off before it could start again. He had enough presence of mind to carefully set the broken phone on the side table before curling in on himself and crying. Again. For the third time that day.

I should probably start this by saying that the descriptions of Peter's symptoms in this chapter are based off of my own struggle. However, my PTSD diagnosis is a result of complex trauma (being exposed to the same trauma repeatedly over a long period of time) instead of a singular event, and besides that difference, PTSD presents differently for everyone. Some people experience vivid flashbacks where they are stuck repeating their memories, others experience flashbacks where they relive their emotions during the trauma (fear, anxiety, helplessness, disgust, self-loathing, etc.), and some don't have flashbacks as much as they have nightmares about the event. There are several categories of symptoms for a diagnosis and it only takes a mix and match of symptoms from those lists to receive a diagnosis, so everyone's struggle is different. That said, I am also looking to temper my descriptions with the examples of PTSD I have seen at my job. I am much more interested in examining the other symptoms of PTSD (such as hyperarousal) then flashbacks, since that seems to be the most common symptom writers focus on.

I would also like to note that at this stage in Peter's recovery, he actually would have an acute stress disorder instead of post-traumatic stress disorder. Acute Stress Disorder shares very similar symptoms and causes with PTSD, with the main difference lying in the timeline.. An acute stress disorder usually arises within one week to one month of the singular traumatic event whereas post-traumatic stress disorder comes in at a later stage and is a longer reaching disorder that can continue on for months to years. Both require early intervention to better treat and rehabilitate the individual. This is why good psychological and community support is essential for the recovery of trauma victims. Additionally, an acute stress disorder does not always lead to post-traumatic stress later.

* * *

So, it's been a while. Sorry for dropping off the map there. I've been dealing with a lot of health issues recently. Found out over Christmas that it will be very difficult for me to get pregnant and even if I manage it, I have a high risk of miscarrying within the first trimester. Apparently my ovaries are covered in cysts which explains all the abdominal pain I've had recently. I guess it's a good thing that biological kids weren't in the plans for my spouse or I because it's not likely to happen without significant medical intervention. After New Years, my doctor also found a tumor on my thyroid that has some suspicious features. I've been given a 10-20% chance that it's cancer and now have to go every few months for an ultrasound to make sure the tumor isn't growing. If it grows any at my next ultrasound they'll have to biopsy it. If the biopsy comes back with either a suspicious for malignancy or malignant result, I'll lose part or all of my thyroid. If the result comes back benign, they'll still have to watch it's growth because it's right by an artery. Even though it may not be cancerous, if the little sucker grows over 2cm (it's just over 1 cm right now) the doctor will have to remove half of my thyroid. So yeah, life just kicked me in the crotch repeatedly and then robbed my bank account while I was down (specialists are expensive, I need to move to Canada or something).

Peter's emotional recovery is what I have been most excited to write about considering that I work at a mental health outpatient clinic and it was literally my job to be the first point of contact for patients (I was a receptionist who answered all incoming calls, some of which needed to be directed to emergency services or a crisis stabilization unit because they dialed the wrong number; seriously, they did not train me well enough to take calls of people threatening to kill themselves or others). Even though I am not a mental health professional and don't have a degree in counseling, I am a good listener and ended up hearing a lot of patients' life stories and then was blessed to watch their recovery efforts over the following months. I will not be discussing any of the cases because that would be a major HIPAA violation, but I do have experience now with several different mental illnesses, situational disorders, and personality disorders. That experience, paired with my own personal journey, is the blueprint for writing Peter's recovery and exploring the various emotions surrounding trauma.

Hopefully you guys will enjoy reading about Peter's recovery. If it gets hairy, I'll add a content warning, but for now I'm just planning on looking at Peter's mindset and emotional state as he processes what happened to him and works on moving forward.

Chapter title: Today's title comes from perhaps Robert Burns most famous love poem "A Red, Red Rose". Burns has always been one of my favorite poets (I own a 19th century edition of his complete works) and I fell in love with his work when I was first exploring Scottish history and the importance of social memory and local dialect to the remembrance of Scottish tradition. The line used for this chapter title does not really relate to the contents of the chapter, I mostly chose it for sentimental reasons.


	14. I don't know how to speak of anything

"Good morning, Peter," a voice called out through the quiet room.

Peter looked up to see a middle-aged man standing in the door. He was tall and trim, a crisp white button down and pinstripe slacks contrasting beautifully with his dark skin. The man's shoulder length dreads had been pinned back neatly with a silver hair clip that matched his tie bar. A set of square glasses rested primly on his nose. Peter was honestly intimidated by the man's personal presentation; he had rarely seen someone so smooth and seemingly self confident outside of Tony Stark himself. Hanging around the billionaire had impressed on Peter the importance and use of a well tailored suit, but this man had taken professional attire and expertly twisted it into his own debonair calling card.

The man watched for a moment as a tongue-tied Peter struggled to come up with a response before finally taking mercy on him. "May I come in?" he asked.

Peter nodded, "Come in. Right. Yeah, sure, that works." God, why was he so awkward? The teen tried to ignore his own incessant babbling and gestured at the chair May had set up across from him at his window.

The man sank into the chair gracefully and cross one leg over the other. He paused a moment to look back up at Peter and capture the teen's eye before speaking, "I know Tony already mentioned having this meeting today, but please allow me to formally introduce myself. My name is Dr. Hope and I'm your new therapist."

"Hi," Peter squeaked and held out a hand.

"And before you ask, yes that's my real name. And no, I didn't choose this profession simply because of that," Dr. Hope smiled as he took Peter's offered hand.

The teen blushed. That was what his next question was going to be. Silence fell for a minute when Peter couldn't come up with something to say. He squirmed in his seat, eyes roving around the room for something to get his attention.

However, Dr. Hope was quick to redirect his attention. "How are you doing today, Peter?" he asked.

Peter shrugged. "I dunno. Do you mean 'how am I doing?' how am I doing? Or 'tell me your deepest thoughts and secrets' how am I doing?"

The counselor chuckled deeply, a disarming smile lifting the corners of his mouth, "the former. I'm not here to drag the meaning of life "

It was Peter's turn to smile now. He liked this guy. "Actually, I am looking forward to getting out of here. I thought that staying in the Avengers facility would be a dream come true, you know? But the whole 'kaboom' thing," the teen paused to mimic an explosion with his hands, "kinda put a damper on things."

"That is understandable," Dr. Hope agreed. "Though I do hope you get the chance to look around some more later. Tony keeps some pretty wild things here."

"Really?" Peter asked, eyes as wide as saucers.

"Oh no, I'm not spoiling that surprise for you," the counselor winked at him.

The teen sighed dramatically, "come on, dude! You can't just say something like that and then not tell me!"

Dr. Hope smiled brightly at Peter. "You'll just have to wait and see," he promised. Pausing to retrieve a file folder and notepad from his briefcase, the man allowed a moment of stillness to fall over the room.

Despite the sudden quiet, Peter felt more at ease with the counselor. Maybe this therapy thing could help. The thought, however encouraging, did little to quell his incessant fidgeting.

"Is it alright if we dive straight in?" Dr. Hope broke the silence.

Peter grunted noncommittally, his gaze roving away to find something - anything - else to focus on. Even if he did think therapy might actually help him, why did it have to be so hard?

The counseler seemed to sense Peter's agitation. He cleared his throat and waited for Peter to flick his gaze back over him, no matter how briefly, before gently explaining, "for today I thought that we would go over your intake paperwork together and get your background established. I have several questions."

"I guess," Peter sounded unsure even to his own ears.

"Great!" Dr. Hope opened the file on his lap. "If you feel uncomfortable at any time, don't hesitate to tell me and we can take a breather. Now, I see that you've been to therapy in the past. Could you tell me a little bit about that past experience?"

Peter's mind flashed back to the understanding counselor with the horrible collection of cardigans who had helped him through the death of his parents and later the death of Ben. "yeah," he began. "It was a few years ago, but I still remember it."

Under the encouraging lead of Dr. Hope, Peter found himself answering prompts and questions without too much anxiety. He conversed about school, his friends, and all of the junk food he planned to eat as soon as he was out of Dr. Cho's reach. When Dr. Hope finally looked down at his watch over an hour later and announced the time, Peter was surprised that they had managed to fill the entire session and more. He honestly didn't think that talking could be so easy. For whatever reason - and seemingly despite his intimidating self-confidence - the counselor had an unspoken gentleness that set Peter at ease.

"Well, Peter, I think we're off to a good start here. And I'm glad to hear how committed you are to finishing your coursework over the summer," Dr. Hope looked up from his notebook to meet Peter's gaze. "Do you have any questions for me?"

The teen shrugged, looking down at his clasped hands. He had so many questions all clamoring for prominence in his head. Was he ever going to be okay? Would the intrusive thoughts go away? Would he start dreaming again instead of seeing a black void every time he closed his eyes? How long would it take for him to stop being so flipping jumpy? Finally, Peter settled on the question that was possibly bothering him the most, "do I have to talk about what happened?"

"That's a great question," Dr. Hope immediately seized on it. "Therapy is here to help you process and build a strong foundation for moving forward. As such, you may want to talk about your experiences in DC or I may ask some questions that lead to processing certain aspects of your experience, but I will not force you to relive it with me. That style of therapy is called Critical Incident Stress Debriefing and it can be harmful for people recovering from trauma."

"Okay," Peter sighed in relief. "That's good."

"Do you have any other questions for me?" Dr. Hope asked after they conversation lapsed into silence.

"Yeah, um, how long do you think this," he gestured around him, "is going to take?"

"It's hard to say," the counselor folded his hands in his lap and learned back. "Right now the goal that we talked about is to help you get through this first hump and then keep that progress going. I'd say we should keep the ball rolling through the summer and then reevaluate after you've gone back to school. Does that sound like a plan?"

Peter bobbed his head. The prospect of an entire summer in therapy was daunting. But if he was honest with himself, he probably needed it.

The counselor smiled at him, "good. Now, what type of homework would you like to assign for yourself this week?"

"Homework!" the teen gave an indignant squawk. "But it's summer!"

"I know, I know. But you'd be surprised how helpful working on introspection through the week can be," the counselor cajoled.

"Do you mean like journaling?" asked Peter.

Dr. Hope scribbled something down on his pad before continuing, "journaling is one of the more popular options, yes. Do you like to write?"

"Kinda?" the teen's voice betrayed his reluctance.

"It doesn't have to be written," Dr. Hope explained. "You can take pictures that resonate with how you're feeling, you can draw or doodle, some people even keep a vlog. The goal is to keep asking questions about yourself and your experiences throughout the week so that you don't bottle everything back up between sessions. Do you think you could do something like that?"

"I do like to take pictures," Peter answered. "And I like to doodle, but I'm not very good."

The smile Dr. Hope gave him was gentle, "this isn't about talent. I promise whatever you bring in will be miles better than anything I could produce."

"Okay," Peter relented.

"Good," Dr. Hope closed the file in his lap and laid aside his pen. "Is there anything else you would like to talk about today? Any questions?"

Peter shook his head. They had not even talked about anything traumatic or deep and yet he was still so tired. A nap sounded good right then.

"Alright, then. I'll let you get back to packing," Dr. Hope shook his hand once more before rising smoothly from his seat and collecting his things. "It was nice meeting you, Peter."

The teen waited until the counselor's footsteps had faded from his hearing before curling up in his chair. He really needed to finish packing the things that had somehow exploded all over his room over the past two weeks. But he still had a few hours. And a nap never hurt anyone, right?

A sharp whistling sound woke him. Peter groggily sat up, trying to figure out which of his limbs went where. If was it even possible, the teen felt worse after his nap. A quick glance at his phone confirmed that he had been asleep for nearly three hours and that he and May were set to leave in just 15 minutes. Shit.

The whistling that woke him cut off in the hallway outside his room. Peter could already hear the familiar gait and breathing of his mentor.

"You about ready?" Tony asked as he poked his head into the room to see Peter curled up by the window.

Peter struggled out of his chair, aware that he probably looked as groggy as he felt. The contents of his book bag were still spread across the room and the teen tried his hardest not to glance at the obvious mess, "I guess so, just a few more things to pack."

Tony, thankfully, didn't call him on the blatant lie. "I was hoping to steal a moment with you before you took off into the sunset."

"Yeah, sure, of course," Peter mumbled, already scrambling to round up his stuff. "What's going on, Mr. Stark?"

"I actually wanted to talk to you about making your internship more official," the billionaire answered.

"What? Really?" the teen paused in the middle of cramming his textbooks into his bag to focus his whole attention on Tony.

"Yes really," Tony held out a file to the teen. "All of the fine details and paperwork are in there, but the gist of it would be a paid part-time internship working with Stark Industries' Research and Development department in addition to serving as the liaison to our new high school internship program."

"But, Mr. Stark," Peter implored. "I can't accept this."

"And why not?" asked Tony.

"Well, um, May would never let me do this on top of patrol and school and, like, I didn't earn it. You know?" the teen managed to stutter out, shrugging his shoulders. He tried to hand the file back to the man,

"Bullshit," Tony immediately countered Peter's half-hearted argument. "You've more than earned this. I've seen your work. With the right resources and attitude, you're going to be the future kid."

Peter ducked his head, a blush creeping up his cheeks, "but Mr. Stark-"

"Nuh-uh," the billionaire cut him off. "No buts. I've already cleared this with your aunt and your new supervisor at SI. You deserve the recognition, Peter, take it."

The teen beamed at the rare praise. He couldn't deny how tempting the offer was, but a part of him was suspicious. Peter honestly wouldn't be surprised if Tony created this opportunity as a ruse to keep him busy over the summer.

"This will be good for you," Tony added to break the awkward silence. "I've already set up your schedule with Dr. Gottlieb over at the NYC satellite office. He's a great scientist and loves working with kids."

"I wouldn't be working with you?" the question was out of Peter's mouth before he could stop himself.

Tony read his wide eyed stare like an open book. The billionaire sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was thinking hard about what to say next. When the silence threatened to swallow Peter whole, Tony finally spoke, "I don't know how much you remember from DC or if you've seen any of the news coverage since, but I made a bit of an international scene."

Peter gaped at his mentor. "International?" he squawked. The teen knew that Tony was famous, but the extent of that fame never ceased to astound him.

"Unfortunately, I attracted a lot of unwanted attention. General Ross and the media have started to question both my actions and our working relationship," the billionaire explained.

"Oh god," Peter choked out. "I am so, so sorry, Mr. Stark."

"Hey, hey, none of that," Tony immediately cut in, "this has nothing to do with you. This is all Ross' doing. He's mad that I've been stonewalling him about Cap and co. for the last two years. If it wasn't this, that asshole would have found some other excuse to come after me."

Peter knew he didn't look convinced. "What's going to happen, Mr. Stark?"

"Right now, you need to focus on getting better and let me deal with this situation."

"But-" the teen started.

"Look, Peter," Tony cut him off. "All I can tell you right now is that you need to lay low and let me handle this. There's a lot of complex things going on all at once and I'm trying my best to keep you out of Ross' warpath. If it comes down to involving you in this nightmare, I'll tell you what you need to know then. For now, go to your new internship and focus on your school work."

Peter looked down at the folder in his hand. This internship sounded like everything he had ever wanted in a job and they would actually pay him to play with science. But a stubbornly cynical part of hs mind whispered that this was just an excuse for Tony to get him out of the way and keep him distracted. Unsure of how to respond, the teen returned to cramming the last of his stuff into his bag.

"Just, think it over," Tony handed him a stack of books. "That antibacterial compression web you were working on has caught Dr. Gottlieb's eye and he wants to help you publish the research."

"Peter?" his aunt called from the hall. She leaned around the door a minute later, "are you ready to go? Happy already has - oh Tony! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."

The billionaire waved off her apology, "it's fine, we were just finishing up here."

He helped Peter pack the last of his things before escorting the boy and his aunt out of the infirmary. "Promise me one thing," Tony broached the subject again while they waited for the elevator. "Just look over the details before you make a decision."

"Okay, Mr. Stark," Peter agreed.

The elevator dinged it's arrival and May shoved their luggage in before beckoning for Peter. The teen gave an awkward half wave to his mentor. He really wasn't sure how to say goodbye after the roller coaster of the last three weeks and the revelation that rescuing his sorry ass had caused an international nightmare for Tony. With a shaky breath, the teen stepped onto the elevator. The reality of finally leaving the infirmary after so many days made Peter's head spin with giddiness.

"Let's go home," May smiled at him and reached out for his shoulder, carefully telegraphing her intent. Peter leaned into the embrace with only a moment of hesitation.

A hand stopped the elevator doors from closing at the last minute. Peter jerked around in surprise and a small thrill of panic to see Tony leaning into the space.

"Look, kiddo," the man said. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry this whole thing blew up on us. Ooh, poor choice of words."

Leaving caution to the wind, the teen turned from hugging May to wrap his arms around Tony instead. "Thank you, Mr. Stark," he whispered into his mentor's chest.

The elevator beeped insistently and Peter broke out of the hug just as suddenly as he had launched into it. Stepping back from the doors, Tonly was left looking conflicted before being cut off from view.

May held her nephew all the way down to the lobby and out one of the back doors. They paused together outside, breathing in the humid summer air. Peter had almost forgotten the smell of the river.

Happy's car idled just outside. "You ready, kid?" the man asked after a tactful moment.

Peter looked back at the closed door behind him. Part of him was going to miss the compound. He had, after all, gotten to stay at the Avengers' home base. The other part of him never wanted to see this place again. Enough time cooped up in the infirmary had seen to that.

"Peter?" May prompted when he didn't respond.

The teen jerked back around, "huh? Oh yeah, I'm good." He answered before clambering through the car door that Happy held open for him.

May settled down next to him and before Peter was quite ready, the car pulled out onto the road around the complex. He looked back through the rear window, watching the imposing front of the facility come into view. Somehow the massive building was still as intimidating as the first time he had visited. As the car sped away from the complex, Peter imagined that one of the figures he could see outlined in the front windows was Tony watching him leave.

The drive back into Queens was as uneventful as New York traffic could be. Peter was more grateful than he expected when his apartment building finally came into view. Staying at the Avengers facility had been amazing, but nothing quite beat the cramped apartment he, May, and Ben had called home for years.

In true Friday night fashion, they had to circle the block for nearly ten minutes before Happy finally managed to snag a parking spot and shove them out of the car. With the hazard lights casting an eerie glow in the twilight and the lone streetlight overhead flickering at odd intervals, the man seemed larger than life silhouetted against the car.

"Be good," Happy grunted as he hoisted out the last of Peter's luggage. "Don't get yourself into any more trouble. I don't think any of us can afford the grey hairs."

The man didn't wave before clambering back into his car and pulling out into traffic with a blaring honk. Peter watched him go until he could no longer hear the familiar revolution of the engine or Happy's quiet singing.

"You know, I think he likes you," May steered him around their luggage and towards the building. "In his own way."

Peter dragged one suitcase behind him, reveling in the pull on newly healed muscles and the strain to finally pain free lungs. "I know," he answered.

The climb up to their fifth floor apartment was more strenuous than Peter remembered. He lugged the suitcase up the stairs behind him with one arm and used the other to pull his uncoordinated body up a step at a time. May made him pause to catch his breath at every landing before letting him continue. After what felt like an hour, their apartment door was finally in front of them. Peter breathed a heavy sigh of relief as he finagled open the ancient deadbolt.

"Surprise," May whispered behind him as the door swung open.

Standing just inside the open doorway, Peter was nearly blown over by the sheer amount of color all over his apartment. Ned had strung blue and red streamers from the ceiling and packed in as many 'get well soon' and 'welcome home' balloons as their small living room could fit. The table was set for three and absolutely full of takeout boxes from Peter's favorite thai, chinese, and mexican restaurants. Ned had even found the small advent candle set Ben used to light every Christmas and set it up in the middle of the food. A specially curated playlist of John Williams soundtracks played in the background. The whole thing looked garrish, over the top, and so completely Ned.

"When I said to put together a small party, I wasn't expecting this," May clucked in the way Peter knew was trying to find something nice to say.

Ned deflated a bit, "are the candles too much?"

"No," Peter shook his head, smile threatening to split his face in two. "This is perfect."

His aunt and best friend smiled back at him, both more relaxed than he had seen since before the bombing. With an arm slung around her nephews shoulder, May led him into their apartment and shut the door behind them. "Welcome home, Peter."

* * *

 **So, it's been a while. Sorry for dropping off the map there. I've been dealing with a lot of health issues recently. Found out over Christmas that it will be very difficult for me to get pregnant and even if I manage it, I have a high risk of miscarrying within the first trimester. Apparently my ovaries are covered in cysts which explains all the abdominal pain I've had recently. I guess it's a good thing that biological kids weren't in the plans for my spouse or I because it's not likely to happen without significant medical intervention. After New Years, my doctor also found a tumor on my thyroid that has some suspicious features. I've been given a 10-20% chance that it's cancer and now have to go every few months for an ultrasound to make sure the tumor isn't growing. If it grows any at my next ultrasound they'll have to biopsy it. If the biopsy comes back with either a suspicious for malignancy or malignant result, I'll lose part or all of my thyroid. If the result comes back benign, they'll still have to watch it's growth because it's right by an artery. Even though it may not be cancerous, if the little sucker grows over 2cm (it's just over 1 cm right now) the doctor will have to remove half of my thyroid. So yeah, life just kicked me in the crotch repeatedly and then robbed my bank account while I was down (specialists are expensive, I need to move to Canada or something).**

 **Anyway, here's a small update to tied you over until my next chapter. It's just a simple chapter with a three part structure, nothing fancy since my creativity is absolutely shot right now, but I promise it's building up to more angst. Excuse any geographical errors, I've never actually been to New York and am relying on Google street view and maps to figure crap out. You'd think that at some point while living in the DC metro area that I would have visited NYC, but no, I just spent the majority of my life within an hour train ride of the city and never actually managed to get my butt any further north than Pennsylvania.**

 **I promise I'm not abandoning this story and already have the next update half written - well, it's at 3000 words, we'll see how much more it balloons before I finally finish writing. While I was working on this, I also got bit by a superfamily series idea so I may work on getting that out sometime before Avengers Endgame (which is going to kill me).**

 **Also, if you haven't seen Spider-man: Into the Spider-verse, you should fix that. It was amazing.**

 **Chapter title: Today I've used another of Robert Frost's poems. "Home Burial" actually centers on a husband and wife who are grieving the lost of their child. The theme doesn't really fit with the chapter, but again, I liked the ring of the line for this chapter.**


	15. The haunted gap in your mind

Peter looked up at the familiar doors of Midtown High. The blue message board cheerfully advertised the summer school schedule below the large sign wishing students and staff a good summer. With a sigh, Peter pushed the door open and ducked into the cool building. This sucked. As much as he didn't want to get held back a year, he equally didn't want to be at his school in the middle of what should have been a lazy summer full of goofing off with Ned and patrolling until his aunt yelled at him with that pinchy faced scowl that meant she was trying not to smile in the middle of a serious discussion. But no, that would require good luck. And luck was something that Peter very much lacked. Ben had called it "the Parker luck" three weeks before he bled out on the pavement in Peter's arms.

Peter growled under his breath, he really needed to get his head on straight and stop getting lost in negative thoughts. The teen trudged down the empty halls; his footsteps seemed to echo impossibly loud in the wide open space and he winced at the sound. A few summer school classes were already underway in the classrooms he passed, but Peter didn't stop at any of the doors. Instead, he continued on to the school library. The librarian, a portly middle aged man with stereotypical horn-rimmed glasses, looked up from his catalogue when Peter tripped through the door.

"Ah, Mr. Parker," he greeted the boy. "They are waiting for you in study room one."

The teen turned on his heel towards the glass-walled study area. He could already see a greying woman sitting across from Principal Morita's familiar figure. Ignoring how his hands tightened nervously around the strap of his bookbag, Peter stepped up to the open doorway. Before he could even reach out to knock, the principal beckoned him in with a warm, "come in, Mr. Parker."

Peter tried his best to keep his steps level and confident as he strode into the study room and slid into a chair. "Hi - er, good morning?"

"Yes, good morning to you as well Mr. Parker," the principal responded to his greeting. "It's good to see you on your way to recovery."

One of the teen's hand reached up self-consciously to rest against the back brace swallowing his upper body. Peter had protested against something that even Dr. Cho said wasn't needed, but Tony insisted on it. According to his mentor, bandages and braces would go a long way in hiding the fact that Peter had recovered remarkably fast. Despite the logic of this, however, Peter was still bitter to be forced into something that outwardly marked him as unwell. A polite cough alerted the teen to the fact that the two adults in the room were still waiting for him to respond. Not fully remembering what the question had been in the first place, Peter settled for a noncommittal shrug. The brace rose and fell awkwardly with his shoulders' jerky motion and he tried to hold it steady with both arms. The teen's face pinched in annoyance.

Clearly misinterpreting Peter's expression for one of pain, Principal Morita sat up straighter in his chair and asked with a small note of alarm, "are you alright to be here so soon, Peter?"

The use of his given name was unusual enough to startle Peter into meeting the man's eyes. He held the gaze a long as he dared before ducking his head again and nodding slightly, "my doctor said I should be okay as long as I can sit with adequate support and take lots of breaks." The line was well rehearsed and not entirely inaccurate, but the teen still stuttered through the lie. Hell, he needed acting lessons.

Even though the response was mumbled, both adults seemed satisfied with his response. "Very well, Mr. Parker, let me introduce your tutor," the principal gestured to the older woman seated next to him.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Parker," the woman had a crisp British accent and a clear tone. "My name is Ms. Marjorie and I have been appointed by the school board to help you finish out your sophomore year."

"Now before I let you two get started on your work," the Principal tacked on to the end of Ms. Marjorie's introduction, "I just want to be clear that the faculty and administration of Midtown is fully behind you and your recovery, Mr. Parker. We're all here for you whenever you need it."

"Thanks," Peter mumbled, eyes fixed on the worn tabletop in front of him to avoid the other man's searching gaze. He wasn't sure how else to respond.

"The number to my office as well as the school's psychologist Mr. Biegeleisen is included with your coursework packet. Please do not hesitate to reach out to any of us at any time," Principal Morita delivered the line with such conviction that Peter almost believed him. Almost. He'd long ago learned not to cause too much of a bother.

"Thank you, Mr. Morita," the teen quietly addressed the glass wall on the right side of the principal. He knew gratitude was the expected response to an offer like that, but he really wasn't sure how to feel. These were people who had always been authorities figures that were carefully engineered to be emotionally unreachable. How was he supposed to accept their well wishes now?

"Yes, thank you," Ms. Marjorie concurred. "We'll let you know if we need anything from you."

The man nodded at the clear dismissal and left the room to speak with the librarian for a few minutes. Peter studiously ignored his new tutor in favor of watching the principal's conversation. All too soon, the familiar figure strode out of view and Peter was forced to shift his focus to the older woman sat across from him.

Ms. Marjorie appeared to be a generally no-nonsense woman. She dressed in muted colors and non-distracting patterns; her hair pulled back into a bun so tight that it tugged at the corner of her eyes. When she spoke again, Peter was reasoned that he never should have been surprised by the British accent in the first place; it seemed to fit the woman perfectly.

"Mr. Parker," the tutor interrupted his internal catalogue of her appearance. Peter was suddenly - and very acutely - aware that he had been staring.

"Y-yes?" the teen stuttered.

Ms. Marjorie flipped open the folder in front of her. She cleared her throat imperiously before responding, "if you look at the schedule in front of you, I believe I have come up with a satisfactory timeline that takes into account your internship while still allowing you to complete the last of your coursework by the end of July and sit your exams in early August."

Peter glanced over the schedule. The coming weeks were packed with tutoring, physical therapy, the SI internship, and counseling. The whole setup looked grueling, but doable. So much for movie marathons and lego dates with Ned.

"Is the schedule agreeable?" the tutor's question once again broke Peter from his thoughts.

The teen shrugged, "I guess."

"Now I understand that you have been through some truly difficult circumstances," Ms. Marjorie hard gaze turned sympathetic. "But I still expect your best work."

Peter wanted to roll his eyes, how could she understand anything? Being buried alive by a terrorist attack and trapped with a dying woman was hardly on the usual list of 'personal tragedies' that ended up putting students in summer school. He wanted to scream or tear his hair out, but settled for nodding along with whatever the older woman said. It would be easier in the long run if he didn't resist.

"Now, I suggest we begin with your English class since you only have a final essay left to complete," Ms. Marjorie suggested. She waited for him to nod before continuing her directions, "Very well, please turn to the rubric for your final essay and we'll review the requirements."

A sigh escaped Peter before he could stop himself. It took a calming breath to push his racing, fear filled thoughts to the back of his mind; with enough concentration, he could do this. It was just schoolwork, he had this in the bag. Maybe. Pencil in hand, the teen did as he had been instructed and immersed himself in his work.

The day passed in an agonizing haze. Tutor and student slogged through the backlog of homework and projects as best they could. Peter couldn't believe how much work had piled up in the last three weeks of term. At this rate, it would take him the full two months to get everything caught up before he could even think about his finals. Why couldn't he have been blown up when school wasn't in session?

Finally, finally, Ms. Marjorie called a halt to the day's schoolwork. Peter shot up from his seat before he could stop himself, already cramming his books back into his bags. He managed a mumbled thank you before shuffling out the door, barely remembering to act like he was injured in his excitement to leave school behind.

The afternoon air was stifling. A heat wave had blanketed New York City in an oppressive blanket of humidity and temperatures nearly 10 degrees above average. Peter tugged uncomfortably at his brace as his feet wandered down the familiar path back to his apartment. The rigid material trapped all of his body heat and the teen could feel the sticky mess of sweat and fabric beneath bunch awkwardly with every step. Sweat crawled down the back of his neck, wetting his hair and clogging his already sensitive nose with the stench of it. The ever present smog hung low to the ground in the summer weather, adding another, more disgusting layer to Peter's misery.

All around him, the city continued it's hectic pace of life. Vehicles clogged the roads, idling impatiently at stoplights as they filled the city with even more exhaust fumes. Heat boiled up from the blacktop, the stench of decaying food drifting up from the sewers and storm drains. Pedestrians buffeted either side of Peter as they all tried to fit into the crosswalk at once.

"Fucking move!" a cyclist yelled out. Peter barely had time to jump back before the cyclist cut a hard right against the light and whizzed through the crosswalk with a middle finger held high against the answering swears of the mingling crowd.

The teen tensed at the shout, eyes darting all around him as if he could watch everyone at once. He was suddenly hyper-aware of everything. His spidey-sense was quiet but his head screamed danger as he took stock of everyone moving through the block. The individual smells of the crowd mingled with the already unpleasant odor of the city to create a truly overwhelming stench.

People mingled at the covered bus stop up ahead. Peter watched them mill about in the hot summer air. A few fanned themselves with whatever came to hand while others huddled in the few patches of shade available. For whatever reason, the normal scene drove a cold spike of fear and disbelief through Peter's heart. How could they just stand there grouped together and hope nothing would happen? They were such an easy target in a group like that. What if something happened?

The world seemed to spin. Everything in the teen's periphery swirled into a wash of color until all that he could see were the people in front of him. His heart beat too fast and his palms sweated, Peter tried to rub them on his jeans, back and forth, back and forth, but his hand shook too much to get a consistent rhythm. He stopped abruptly.

"Hey, man, watch it!" a voice grouched angrily before a heavy shoulder rammed him out of the way.

Stumbling to the side, Peter tried his best not to lurch into anyone else. One hand braced himself on the overly rough brick exterior of the nearest building as the teen took a moment to find his balance. His head screamed at him at the same time that it tried to drown him; everything seemed to both speed up overwhelmingly fast at the same time that the seconds he needed to actually breath slowed to a crawl. Peter forced himself to take two deep breaths, biting off the unintelligible sounds that wanted to escape him. He tried to take stock of surroundings until the panic clawing at his mind won and he tore off in what his spidey-senses told him was the direction of home. Even in his state, the teen managed to deftly dodge the pedestrians choking the New York City sidewalks. Something guided him to a safe place and without even remembering how he had got there, Peter found himself looking up at his apartment building. The teen took the steps three at a time. Ignoring the protest of Mrs. Wilkins from the third floor, he flew up the several flights, over the banister, and down the hall to his door. His shaking hands barely managed to unlock and open the door. Finally, he was inside. Safety.

"Peter?" May called from somewhere inside their shared living space. She appeared around the corner a moment later, hair in a messy bun on top of her head and a dusting rag hanging over her shoulder. "Peter! Honey, are you okay? What happened?"

The woman rushed at him in her concern. Peter leapt back at her approach, reaching behind him unconsciously for the door knob. He shook his head.

"Oh, honey," May sounded heartbroken for him. "It's okay, everything is going to be okay."

"No!" Peter screamed in her face. Anger bubbled up inside him with an unstoppable force and spilled out of his mouth before the teen could stop himself. If he thought hard, however, Peter didn't want to stop himself. Everything he had bottled up for the past two weeks was pushing to come out all at once. "How can you say that?" he yelled past his suddenly runny nose and watering eyes. "It's not okay, it will never be okay!"

May was taken aback, one hand flying to her chest and the other reaching out for Peter. The teen knocked her arm away, not even stopping to question if the flash of pain that crossed May's face was emotional, physical, or both.

"It's not safe out there," Peter voice dropped dangerously as he shoved past her. "I'm done! I'm tired of everyone trying to convince me that everything will be alright. Well guess what? It's never going to be alright ever again."

The teen fled to his room, slamming the door behind him. He paced for what felt like hours. His hands tore at his hair, pulling out strands in between his grasping fingers. The anger and pain built up inside him until the only way he could release it was a long, angry scream. With everything spent, Peter threw himself on his bed, burying his head in his pillows.

May knocked frantically at the door, "Peter? Peter!"

The teen heard his doorknob wiggle around some before May finally shouldered her way through the entrance. He turned onto his side to stare sullenly at the wall. He didn't want to face reality quite yet.

"Oh, thank god," the woman breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of Peter safe on his bed. May didn't say anything more for several minutes, but Peter could hear her carefully controlling her breathing until it was almost too quiet to hear. Silence stretched between them.

The bed behind Peter's back dipped suddenly as his aunt sat on the edge of his mattress. The teen hadn't even heard her approach. That kind of scared him. May gently dropped a hand onto his shoulder, "Look, Peter I have no clue what you're going through. But I do know it will get better. We've been through too much for it not to."

Peter didn't respond.

His aunt sniffled, trying to hold back her tears. "We made it through your parents, aliens, Ben, and a radioactive spider. We can make it through this. Right, Peter?"

The teen remained stubbornly silent. Some part of him, a part that surprised and scared him, wanted her to hurt as much as he did.

"Peter?" May's voice broke. She sobbed messily into her hands for a minute before pulling herself together enough to rise to her feet and leave.

As the door swung closed quietly behind her, Peter looked up. He wanted to call out to his aunt, tell her that it was going to be okay and that he was sorry, but the lump in his throat stopped him. Peter choked down his regret and laid back down as he allowed the tempest of his emotions to swallow him.

Sometime during the eternity that he stared at his ceiling in a fit of despair, May brought him a grilled cheese sandwich. Her eyes were still puffy and red from crying and she didn't bother to hide the tears tracks on her cheeks. She simply dropped the plate on his bedside table and left.

The sandwich tasted like sand. Peter only managed to nibble on the crusts before setting the whole thing aside. He laid back in bed and stared at the ceiling. Two rooms over, May cried herself to sleep. That night, Peter didn't dream.

* * *

 **Sorry for the long wait between updates again. Life is life and my coworker was out 3 weeks for surgery so I was working crazy overtime doing both of our jobs. Apologies for the generally unedited state, I'll try to come back later to clean it up and make sure the sections flow better together.**

 **Anway, as for this chapter, I hope focusing the minutia of Peter's recovery will give me a chance to really examine how his experience has been altered by what he survived. Plus it gives me the excuse to write a British tutor :) This chapter was also originally like 5000 words so I decided to split up some sections and cut down on others. A lot of stuff got moved to the next chapter; stay tuned for that, I'm hoping to have it out in the next 1-2 weeks since I'm actually planning to enter this fanfic into Camp NaNoWriMo. My goal is around 25,000-30,000 words which should be more than enough to wrap this thing up. I want to get it all down before Perfect Pandemonium hits the year mark.**

 **Chapter title: "the haunted gap in your mind" is a partial line from Siegfried Sassoon's 1919 poem "Aftermath". Sassoon is probably one of the most famous of all the WWI poets (not least of which owing to the fact that he actually survived said war) and this particular work was written as a directive to remember the horrors of war and the men who were lost. It's an incredibly poignant and visceral poem that really punches you in the gut with the reality of war and survival. I chose this line because Peter is at the point - just like Europe was in 1919 - where the immediate trauma of the event has passed and he is now faced with having to move on. It serves as a reminder that there is a space in his existence and identity that will always be haunted even as it is filled back up with his everyday life. Even more so, it isn't a charge to dwell morosely on that haunted gap, but rather a charge to not bury what happened to him. If anyone is interested in learning more about the specific experience of British soldiers in the trenches of WWI, I really recommend Peter Jackson's documentary They Shall Not Grow Old.**


	16. If you can meet Triumph and Disaster

"Peter?" May's voiced called through his closed door, "is your homework done?"

"Yes, Aunt May," the teen in question responded, groaning at the interruption. Ever since he started tutoring, May had taken it upon herself to check that he was sticking to his schedule. The teen harbored a sneaking suspicion that his aunt was coordinating with Tony or his counselor about his progress in both school and life. While Peter appreciated her investment in his recovery, it often left him feeling smothered in a way that reminded him uncomfortably of the early days after his parent's deaths.

The teen waited for May's footsteps to fade down the hall before he turned back to his computer, fingers poised over the keyboard. Dr. Hope had suggested that this was something he might want to do at some point during his recovery, but the teen honestly wasn't sure if he was ready. For several minutes, he struggled with the decision before finally determining that it was now or never. He sucked in a breath and held it as he typed 'DC metro bombing' into the search bar. Immediately images filled his screen. There were pictures of people running in terror, of the injured being carried out by emergency workers, and even some of the damaged station with police combing the wreckage. One particularly poignant image captured the silent scream of a small child being held by a dazed and bloodied mother. And then Peter saw his face. Everywhere. Someone had taken a picture of Iron Man gleaming against the late afternoon sun with an injured Peter cradled in his arms while two paramedics ran towards them. In a series of images that captured frenzied motion, chaos, and human desperation, the image of him and the superhero stood out in stark contrast. For some reason the whole thing seemed calm and almost artistic with the way the Iron Man armor caught the light, as if the moment was a staged piece suspended in history.

The breath Peter had been holding wooshed out all at once and he had to force himself to take another breath. After a moment of silent breathing exercises, he turned back to his picture and clicked on it. The search took him through to headline after headline with his image featured. The picture of him and the screaming child seemed to be the de facto images of the bombing. There was even video coverage, but Peter couldn't quite bring himself to click on the link. He barely remembered Tony's rescue and he didn't want to add another set to all the other memories he was having to slowly unpack and process in therapy.

With a heavy sigh, Peter turned his attention away from the photographs of his face that littered the internet and pulled back from the computer. He stared blankly at the wall, trying to process the deluge of information he had just waded through.

How could it be his picture that the media had seized on? Why, out of everyone who had been injured and killed, was it his experience that rose to the top? The rational part of his mind told him that it was Iron Man the world was focused on. But the skittish, scared part of his mind whispered that it was his pain and obvious injuries which news outlets had taken and run with, twisting his experience to further their ratings. The whole thing made him queasy and wracked him with guilt. All those people. So many dead. So many injured. And he had been unable to save any of them.

Peter barely made it to the bathroom before he lost his hold on breakfast. Shit. How had he survived when so many others had died? How was he supposed to handle this whole travesty? Marie's face, streaked with blood and tears, rose unbidden in his mind. This time there was little left but bile to lose into the already stained toilet bowl.

"Peter?" that was May's voice. Even though the door was cracked from where the teen had hastily stumbled through it, she stayed on the other side as if waiting for his permission before entering. Thankfully, she didn't ask if everything was okay this time.

"I'm fine," the teen called as he reached out to flush his mess away. "Breakfast didn't agree with me." They both knew that was a lie.

May was still waiting by the door when Peter finished, looking so much like a lost puppy that the teen couldn't help but pull her into a tight hug.

"Clean yourself up," the woman directed, "and I'll bring something light to settle your stomach."

Peter took his time washing out his mouth. It was only when his sensitive hearing picked up the click of his bedroom door and May's soft steps retreating to the kitchen, that he ducked out of the bathroom and into his room. A bottle of gatorade and packet of crackers sat beside his monitor. He didn't touch them. Instead, Peter swung back into his desk chair and purposefully selected the news article he had been avoiding. As much as his brain tried to tell him this was too much, he wanted to finish what he had already started. Faces popped up on the laptop screen to greet him, most of them smiling widely at the camera. He carefully read through each name and description, committing the faces to memory. These were the people who hadn't made it:

Jason Wells. A student of engineering at Georgetown and the youngest of six boys .

Melissa Hampton. Worked for the Department of Defense, married for 23 years, mother of three, and avid water skier.

Daisy Nava. Entrepreneur running the Spitfire Spinster tavern, community pillar, biker, visiting the Vietnam Wall, survived by long time partner Eve Barnett and their two huskies.

Chad Sneed. Loner, job hopper, self-titled gamer, remembered fondly by the numerous internet forums he moderated.

Anna Romero. Nurse, just one month shy of her wedding, only had three states remaining in her quest to visit all 50.

Matthew Walker. Originally from Hertfordshire, on holiday with his parents, looking forward to leaving primary school, wanted to become a marine biologist or an astronaut when he grew up.

Dillon Bower. Retired Air Force Colonel, collaborating on an Air and Space museum exhibit, grandfather, outlived Mrs. Bower by five years.

Chava and Esther Bonhoeffer. Five and Seven, daughters of prominent lobbyist, nanny still in critical condition.

Aiden Blevins. Survived by second wife and two step-daughters, worked as an auditor for the Internal Revenue Service, active in community sports and coached an elite softball team.

Marie Faust. Park ranger, single mother of three cats, enjoyed hiking and archery, author of The Independent State of Dade: Social Memory and False Narratives in a Microcosm of the Lost Cause.

All dead.

"That's enough," Peter told himself, recognizing the familiar pull of anxiety. He breathed deeply through his nose and out through his mouth. The laptop glowed gently in the dark room as Peter slipped out of his apartment, out of the past, and into the outside world. New York was a completely different world from DC and Peter basked in the familiarity of it all. The little reminders of Queens kept him grounded as the teen held onto the sight of streets he had known all his life. With hand shoved into his pockets, he set out on the familiar trek to Delmar's. A sandwich wouldn't fix all of his problems, but it also wouldn't hurt.

Days passed and Peter found himself in a consistent rhythm. Tutoring and counseling took up a considerable part of his week, demanding a mental acuity that he would rather save for research that actually interested him. So when his internship finally started, the teen's nerves were overpowered by the stimulating challenge working in a real lab brought. Peter had been pleasantly surprised to find his new internship exciting. Once he got through the two day long lecture on lab safety and procedures, he found the actual work both challenging and rewarding. Dr. Gottlieb, his supervisor, was a chemical engineer with a strong German accent. Though he his muscular form towered over Peter, he had a kind soul and under his careful direction, Peter could already feel himself coming out of his shell. For once, the memories of his trauma were held at bay thanks to the power of science and a mind-numbing workload.

Which is how Peter found himself working late through the his shift one day as he tried to complete the many and various tasks Dr. Gottlieb supplied him with.

"Sohn einer Hündin! Du Arschgesicht, zerbrechst du immer!" German echoed through the surprisingly acoustic lab.

Peter tried his best to ignore the cursing, he knew that it would die down soon. Dr. Gottlieb seemed to think he was being subtle whenever he vented his frustrations in his native language and the teen was loathe to correct him. After all, it was highly entertaining at the end of the day.

Sure enough, a few minutes passed before the muttered curses turned into a softer tone. "Es tut mir leid. Es war nicht so gemeint," the man murmured to the CSTR reactor he had most recently been lambasting.

With a fond shake of his head, Peter turned back to his work. A whiteboard full of equations sat before him, taunting the teen. He just had to figure out the optimum pressure release to turn his altered anti-bacterial webbing into a compress bandage and then he was ready to actually move into the development stage. This part of the math had been a cinch for him when he was figuring out distances with his webshooters. But this time, his calculations had to be airtight. He had graduated to directly working with the fragility of the human body and it was a world apart from simply knowing his own webslinging capabilities.

The hours ticked by abysmally slow as he brainstormed the equations with Dr. Gottlieb. Peter had the suspicion that the elder scientist knew the solution to his problem but was holding back in order to allow the teen to figure it own for himself. It was infuriating and appreciated all in one emotion.

Finally, finally, after much trial and error, Peter cobbled together a solution that actually worked. He held his breath from the time he finished plugging in the data to the time his computer simulation spat out what looked like a finished product. The teen looked at his supervising scientist with uncertainty and a red face from holding all of his racing thoughts in with his breath.

"That's very good, Peter." Dr. Gottlieb praised him. "If we keep this up, I think your prototypes will be ready to submit by next month."

Peter beamed at the scientist. An airy "thank you," escaped with the breath he had been holding.

"Now come with me. I'm going to teach you the fun part," Dr. Gottlieb gestured over to a small nest of computer desks on the backside of the lab.

"What's that?" the teen asked.

The scientist smiled, an unsettling glint in is eyes. "Project proposals," he answered.

Peter groaned and Benny, Dr. Gottlieb's lab assistant, sniggered from where he was bent over his own laptop. This didn't sound promising.

"Oh, don't sound so disappointed," Dr. Gottlieb chortled. "Science isn't all inventions and discoveries, you know. There's also a shit ton of paperwork, cleaning, and maintenance involved. Grant and project proposals are a necessary evil if you want your idea funded or marketed. But don't worry, we'll be sure to give you lots of practice."

With a firm hand between his shoulder blades, Peter allowed himself to be guided over to the computers. A not inconsiderable booklet was placed in front of him, the title page offering dry encouragements on 'demystifying grant seeking and getting your project funded.'

"Everything you need to know is in here, but if you get stuck, I've also set up a powerpoint and included some of my own proposals as an example," Dr. Gottlieb explained, the menacing glint in his eyes growing to a full twinkle. "Let Benny know if you have any questions."

Peter flipped through the first few pages, a growing sense of dread settling in his stomach. Great, more essays. His head thunked down onto the book, beating out a gentle rhythm.

"I don't think you can actually learn by osmosis," Benny called from across the room where he was recording information from the plug flow reactor. Peter flipped him off as soon as Dr. Gottlieb turned his back. A companionable silence fell on the lab, interrupted only by the whirring of their equipment and the staccato tak tak tak of typing.

The teen was actually making headway on figuring out how the hecking heck to write proposals when Dr. Gottlieb's watch beeped. The small sound cut through the hum of machinery to ring as loud as a klaxon in Peter's ears.

"Scheisse," the scientist swore as he glanced at the time. "Peter, that's you. Don't make me have to write another overtime explanation to Debra because of you!"

Peter was up and moving before the shout had finished echoing through their space. He collected his bookbag from his locker and hung his lab coat and various personal protection equipment on their assigned hooks.

"Bye baby undergrad," Benny called to his retreating back.

The elevator ride up to the lobby took longer than Peter's anxious mind would have liked. He hated getting interrupted in the middle of his work; if it wasn't for his tight schedule, the teen was sure he would turn into one of those workers that lived on the job. But he did have a schedule to keep and Dr. Gottlieb was under strict orders to keep him to it.

Ding, the elevator stopped moving long enough to let people spill out . The lobby of the Stark Industries NYC satellite office was still buzzing busily even at this hour of the afternoon. For a smaller office, the teen was still amazed at the sheer number of people that worked in the space. Dodging briefcases, lunch bags, and employees who insisted on texting and walking, Peter made a beeline for the exit.

"Stark Industries, please hold. Stark Industries, please hold. Stark Industries New York office, how may I direct your call?" the voice of Daniel the receptionist rang out over the noise of the crowd as he answered the already swamped switchboard. He nodded politely to Peter as the teen went by, hands furiously typing away at a worn down keyboard.

Without so much as a backward glance, Peter tossed a wave over his shoulder to Daniel and stumbled out onto the street. His phone told him that he was running behind and would have to hurry if he wanted to make his counseling appointment on time. Wanted, the teen thought to himself, was a strong word. Required by May and Tony would be a more accurate summation.

The teen made the walk in record time, not even panting as he skidded to a halt in front of the high rise not even 15 minutes later. He paused long enough to scrape his hair back together before he pushed his way through the crowd inside and to the elevator bank.

"20," he announced as he slipped into a surprisingly empty car. The other man in the space looked at the teen for a moment before gesturing wordlessly at the panel. Peter rolled his eyes, New Yorkers , he snorted and selected floor 20.

The office of Dr. Hope was sleek and modern, boasting clean lines and comfortable chairs. Sedate monochromatic art decorated the walls. A smiling woman greeted Peter as he entered, trying and failing to suppress a yawn. "The counselor is expecting you, it should be just a mom-"

"Peter, come right on in," the counselor interrupted them, already holding the office door open for the teen. "How was your week?"

Peter shrugged, trying his best to fill the space with whatever small talk that could come to mind. The longer he stalled, the less time they would have to discuss the more painful aspects of his last week.

"Did you work on anything we talked about last session?" the counselor asked, clearly not fooled by the teen's tactics.

Peter shook his head, staring at his hands to avoid looking Dr. Hope in the eye. "No," he managed to verbalize.

The counselor didn't reproach him for his lack of effort or try to assure him that it was okay to miss the homework. Instead, he waited a moment as if to see whether Peter would add anything else before asking, "what did you do this week?"

"Uh, I looked up the pictures of those that - didn't make it," Peter still couldn't bring himself to admit out loud that 12 people had died. "It was weirder than I thought it would be."

His counselor nodded and scribbled something down on his notepad, "And why is that?" he asked.

Peter shrugged, casting around the room to buy himself some time while he tried to figure out how to put his thoughts into words. "They're all so normal," was the explanation he finally settled on.

"How so?" Dr. Hope set his pen down to give Peter his undivided attention.

Peter shrugged again. "I dunno. All of the pictures are happy and smiling and it seems weird to think that they were actual people instead of just bodies torn apart."

"Did you see your park ranger's picture?" the counselor asked gently after a moment.

"Yeah," Peter nodded. "There's a couple of pictures of her in and out of uniform and it seems like she had a really full life, you know? I wouldn't have recognized her if the pictures weren't captioned. She was covered in blood and dirt when she first tried to rescue me. And, um, I don't know, I never really thought that she would look different in real life. Er, in normal life."

"So it still feels like a bad dream?" Dr. Hope prompted.

"I guess," Peter thought about it for a moment. "In my head, I know it happened, but it still feels like it happened to someone else or like what I experienced can't be real because how could you live through that and come out alive on the other side?" Peter rushed through his explanation, as if getting the words out faster would make them hurt less.

"That's understandable Peter, you experienced a very traumatic event and your brain is trying to put distance between you and the memory," Dr. Hope explained.

"You said that's called dissociation?" Peter asked.

The counselor nodded, "that's right."

Peter stared at his lap, trying to figure out what to say next. It was all still so overwhelming to think about. He had survived a terrorist attack; 12 other people hadn't. His heart picked up speed as he thought about everything that had happened. It wasn't that bad, he told himself. It wasn't that bad. He had survived and that must be why he felt like the whole thing had been a bad dream. It was just something he should have been able to get over by now.

"Where are you right now, Peter?" Dr. Hope asked.

"I, uh," Peter cleared his throat. He really wasn't sure where his head was at that moment. The same mass of emotion that had been plaguing him since the day he left the compound swirled around his mind. Finally, he settled on one concrete thought, "I feel like a fraud."

The counselor paused in taking notes, his eyebrows rising in surprise at the teen's hastily blurted confession. "How so, Peter?" he finally asked.

"It's just, I should be over this by now. And it's not like I died or anything, you know?" Peter shrugged. "It just feels like I'm making all of this up. Does that make sense?"

Dr. Hope looked up to meet and hold Peter's gaze, "It does make sense, Peter. Minimizing your experience is a common reaction to trauma. But I want to assure you that what you're feeling and what you experienced is very real."

"But it feels like I don't have the right to be depressed or scared," the teen shook his head, hands clenching and unclenching beneath the table. He needed to get the words out before this sudden sense of clarity left him, "I mean, yeah, I was hurt and that still scares me, but like I'm recovering and there's no lasting damage. So many others died or lost limbs or are permanently disabled and I'm going to be fine. Marie died. She's gone. And I'm still - I'm still here. It's not fair! They all have it so much worse. So how can I complain."

"Peter," this time Dr. Hope's voice was harder, firmer, in a way that reminded the teen of the tone Uncle Ben used whenever he tried to have a serious talk. "What happened to other people does not minimize or negate how your brain reacts to the situation you went through. You need to understand and acknowledge that you have lived through a traumatic event. Ignoring and suppressing emotions by comparing your experience to other people's will only lead you to bottle everything up until it boils over."

"But, how?" Peter asked, bewildered and tearful.

The counselor tore a sheet out of his notebook and pushed it across the table to the teen, "I want you to write out all of the positive steps you've taken towards recovery. Start with the fact that you survived."

Peter did as he was told, though not entirely convinced why he was going along with the instruction. A list quickly formed on the sheet in front of him. 1) I survived. 2) I went to therapy. 3) I haven't given up on therapy. 4) I'm finishing my schoolwork. 5) I'm still seeing my friends. 6) I'm working through my weird emotions with May.

Dr. Hope didn't say anything while Peter worked on his list, no matter how many times the teen stopped to glance up at him. Finally, Peter could think of nothing else to add and put his pen down. He stared at the list, reading it through once, twice, three times more before looking back at his counselor. "I'm done," he said.

"That's good," Dr. Hope replied. "Is it alright if I see it?"

Peter reluctantly handed over the note. The counselor read it over carefully before handing it back to the teen. "Now I want you to think about what lead to each of the things you wrote."

The teen's memory soared back over all of the events that had happened in the last few weeks. His mind's eye called up images of the metro station, Marie, and the Iron Man armor coming to get him while his heart remembered the terror and pain of his injuries and physical recovery in the hospital. The same swirling mass of conflicting emotions cascaded down on him, but the sheet in front of him was a reminder of everything he was overcoming. Carefully, Peter sorted through the mess. "Wow," he breathed out without meaning to.

"You've been through a lot, Peter," Dr. Hope spoke for the first time in several minutes. "You need to give yourself the leeway to confront the full impact of the trauma you experienced. This week, I want you to work on sticking up for yourself and your emotions. Everytime you feel overwhelmed by life or your memories, remind yourself of your list and everything you have already overcome."

Peter drilled a laser like focus into the sheet, mind whirring away with several thoughts at once. The homework assignment seemed simultaneously simple and the hardest one yet. He picked the list up and folded it carefully, slipping the paper into his pocket before he could change his mind.

"Do you think you can do that?" Dr. Hope prompted.

"Yes," the teen was surprised by the force of his statement. For the first time since he woke up, Peter truly felt like he could finally confront his memories. And it scared him.

* * *

 **Man, I went to see Endgame this last month and now I have ALL the emotions. And I want to write a fix-it fic, dang it.**

 **Oh look, another chapter in triptych. Next time I swear that I'm not going to write a loosely connected three-parter. Please excuse me fumbling through the science section. I have no clue what working in a lab is like. I took rocks for jocks (Geology 101) as my science class in college and we got our rock hammers confiscated the first week because some idiot baseball player decided to use it on the lab equipment instead of the crystals we were working on. Also, my lab partner dropped the class and I was odd man out, so I just ended up working by myself all year and not actually having to develop good lab communication. I can read a topographical map really well though, so there's that.**

 **Chapter title: a partial line from Rudyard Kipling's poem "If". As famous as this poem is, I was hesitant to use it considering some of Kipling's history. However, I really liked the stanza: "If you can dream—and not make dreams your master; / If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim; / If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster / And treat those two impostors just the same; / If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken / Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, / Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, / And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:". These lines feel so much like Peter's struggle right now that I convinced myself to go ahead and use Kipling.**


	17. Take up our quarrel with the foe

Rhythmic bass thrummed through lab, reverberating off of the reinforced glass wall, and setting the space alive with its beat. Tony Stark leaned against one of the crowded counters, typing away furiously in time with the music. Lines and lines of code flowed under his watchful gaze, as he tweaked the last of the parameters to his liking. Beside the inventor, Peter's Spiderman suit lay haphazardly on the table. It had been turned inside-out in order for Tony to access the port, a jumbled mess of fabric and wires.

"Pepper said I'd find you in here," Rhodey's voice filtered through Tony's concentration. The man whirled around to see his friend lingering in the doorway.

"You look like hell, man," the colonel stated when Tony didn't return his greeting.

Tony grunted in acknowledgement, "and you look exhausted, but I'm not the type of guy to point that out." He waved vaguely at FRIDAY and his music cut out.

Rhodey snorted at that retort, the small smile softening his features. Pushing off from the the door frame, he strode across the room to clasp Tony's shoulder, "Ross sent me."

The change in Tony's expression was instantaneous and visceral. He forced himself to take a deep breath before replying, "Nope. Nuh-uh. I am not having this conversation until I'm properly caffeinated. Coffee?"

"Please," Rhodey replied, following the billionaire out of his lab.

The two friends drank their coffee in the comfort of the main lounge, enjoying the rare moment to slow down. Tony walked Rhodey through the latest updates to his suit as he focused on how to implement his prototype nanotech while the other man complained about the different plans both the Pentagon and UN had for War Machine. The two savored their coffee and allowed the moment to stretch out as long as possible, neither wanting to deal with the issue at hand. It was Tony who finally broke their stillness.

"Alright, lay it on me," he mumbled over the top of his mug.

Rhodey sighed, but set aside his own mug nonetheless. Leaning forward to brace his elbows against the metal covering his knees, the colonel took a moment to collect his thoughts before starting, "I'm here to tell you that after reviewing the information your lawyers sent, the delegates have decided to invite you in for an interview regarding your actions in DC. It's completely voluntary at this point, but I don't need to tell you what's going to happen if you refuse."

"So I've been voluntold. Wonderful," Tonty snarked. The sigh that escaped him was longsuffering, "what do they need from me?"

Rhodey reached over for the briefcase he had abandoned in favor of coffee. The sound of it snapping open seemed to echo in the quiet room. "The full list is being forwarded to your lawyers as well, but this is everything they're asking for. Mostly it's just clarification on what led to your involvement in DC and some follow up questions on records they've already looked over. However, they are also asking for proof of the kid's employment."

"Ah hell," Tony cursed as the Rhodey plunked the paperwork down in front of him. The billionaire immediately reached for it, scanning the documents quickly.

"You're perfectly within your rights to refuse their request for information," Rhodey continued.

Tony snorted derisively, "but if I refuse they could subpoena my records and follow that paper trail to the kid."

"Right," Rhodey sighed.

They sat in silence for a moment, Tony digesting the information before him and Rhodey watching his friend with pity. "Any advice?" the billionaire asked without looking up from his paperwork.

Rhodey shrugged, turning his mug around in his hands to stare at the swirling black liquid, "you know this is Ross trying to prove a point. If he can't get you through the Accords, he's hoping you'll give enough rope on record to hang yourself with down the road.

Tony laughed humorlessly, Ross was a self righteous bastard who could go screw himself with a rusty fork. How the billionaire ended up with such a vindictive 'ally' was beyond him, but he strongly suspected that it was the universe deciding to make him the butt of some cosmic joke. Or karma. Either worked.

"Look man," Rhodey's voice filled their space. "The kid is going to get unmasked one day and it could complicate whatever you officially have on record with the Accords. The best advice I can give you is to be careful how much information you let slip."

"So you're telling me to lie on record, but to be careful how I lie?" Tony asked, his eyebrows in real danger of disappearing into his hairline from how high they arched in question.

"I'm not telling you to do anything," Rhodey was quick to interject. "Plausible deniability, remember?"

The billionaire laughed, "politics really doesn't suit you."

"You're telling me, man." Rodey raised his coffee mug to Tony and drained the last dregs. He took his time gathering the papers back into his briefcase. "Whatever happens, I've got your back. Court-martial be damned."

Tony grimaced, great, taking someone else down with him on this sinking ship was the last thing he wanted. Without addressing his friend's pledge, the man reacted in the only way he knew how, "when this is all over, we need a real drink."

"Or three," the colonel sighed in blissful anticipation, rising stiffly from his seat.

Tony watched his friend go, mind whirring over the implications of everything that could go wrong. With a good legal team and razor sharp people skills, he might just be able to pull this off. Or, at the very least, scrape by with a stalemate. He stood at the large windows of the compound, watching the campus below bustle with activity as a rudimentary battle plan formed in his head.

Behind him, a door opened and quiet feet padded across the room. He knew those footsteps anywhere and wasn't in the least surprised when arms circled his waist, squeezing affectionately. Tony leaned down with a small smile to bury his nose in the familiar scent of his fiance's hair.

"Hey," Pepper murmured.

Tony let his lips ghost over the top of her ear to plant a kiss at her temple. What a woman.

"I've already set up a meeting with your lawyers, they'll be here in a few hours," Pepper spoke lowly, sounding softer than her usual business tone. "In the meantime, why don't we have a nap. It would do you a world of good."

"A nap, or a nap nap?" Tony asked, mind already seizing on the many possibilities.

"Just a nap," Pepper corrected. "FRIDAY told me you were up all night again."

The billionaire sighed, but let her take him by the hand and lead the way to their bedroom. "Tattle-tale," he hissed at his AI as their door slid closed. For once, the AI didn't reply and Tony cursed her carefully programmed sass.

As in most other areas of his life, Pepper was right. The nap had done him a world of good. Tony woke a lot less tired than when he'd laid down. His fiance was still asleep beside him, hair splayed across the pillow and one arm languidly resting over her head. He smiled fondly at the picture she made. Extricating himself carefully from the duvet, Tony stole quietly across the room to shrug into a crisp dress shirt and thin tie. He was just finishing with his cufflinks when FRIDAY pushed a nearly silent notification through to his phone. Tony glanced down, cursing softly at the notice. He glanced back at Pepper, loathe to disturb her. Between their high stress jobs, hectic social life, and demands of the government, neither the CEO nor the billionaire were allowed enough quiet moments just to themselves. Tony wished this sleepy contentment could stretch on forever, but he knew that it wasn't meant to last and so strode over to sit beside the woman on their bed.

"Come on," he encouraged quietly, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. "Happy says the lawyers are about 20 minutes out."

Pepper's nose scrunched against returning consciousness, turning to face Tony. A low mumble, mostly muffled in the pillow, was her only protest. She blinked awake, gazing up at the billionaire.

"Hi, you," Pepper murmured. She stretched before shooting upright and throwing the covers away. "The lawyers! FRIDAY was supposed to wake me up -"

"Relax," Tony cut into her panic before it got carried away. "They're still 20 out."

"20 minutes!" Pepper gasped. She hit to ground running, scrambling to squeeze back into her suit and nylons. Tony wisely kept out of her way as she pulled her image back together.

"Hair. How is my hair?" the CEO muttered, hands scrambling to place conservative studs in her ears

"You look great," Tony assured. "The picture of a consummate professional."

She led the way through the compound, heels clicking loudly in their rush. Happy was waiting for them by the scheduled conference room. He immediately recognized the barely concealed apprehension on Pepper's face and the sheepish grin on Tony's. "It's okay, they got held up on the highway. You still have time."

Pepper glared meaningfully at Tony as she accepted the chair Happy held for her. He was going to have to give that man another raise one of these days. And overtime. Lots of overtime.

"Peter called for you," Happy mentioned while they waited. "Well, he called to leave me a report on his internship and asked when you two could work on updates."

Tony sunk into his own chair in barely contained relief, at least Peter was well enough to ask after it. The billionaire had been worried that Peter might need a break from superheroing. If only they could tinker in the lab instead of having to deal with this mess, "you know I can't talk to him right now."

Happy shook his head, "not officially, no."

A pad of paper and a pen slid across the table to bump into where Tony's elbows rested on the cool surface. His head snapped around to see Pepper staring him down, a wolfish grin lighting up her features.

"Nothing is stopping you from unofficially contacting Peter," she explained, gesturing to the pen and paper. "We're more than capable of passing on the message."

"You two planned this, didn't you?" Tony accused. "My own people, conspiring against me."

His humor fell flat. Pepper winced, rubbing her forehead as she almost visibly sought for words, "do I really have to explain this to you?"

Oh boy, Tony had messed up. He had messed up big time and he wasn't even sure where it had gone wrong.

"Peter is a teenager," Pepper started with the obvious. "He's not used to our world of politics and carefully calculated social maneuvers. I'm afraid that he will take your distance personally, especially given that he's still recovering. I know you told him what's going on with Ross, but he needs to know that he's not alone and that none of this is his fault."

The billionaire looked away from her, chagrined. In the stress of everything, he had forgotten that Peter was still in the process of emotionally maturing. He still needed stability and reassurance that everything was alright. Well, as alright as things could be after the teen's world had literally exploded. Tony picked up the pen, "what would I do without you?"

Pepper smiled, "probably end up an emotional and financial basket case."

Silence feel as Tony scratched out a handwritten letter like it was 1918 and not the Year of Our Lord two thousand and eighteen. When he finally finished jotting down his thoughts and tying it all together with a small doodle of the chemical structure of iron, Pepper was busy reviewing their stack of records and Happy had disappeared.

"I sent Happy to show in the lawyers," the CEO answered his unspoken question.

"Which firm did you call in?" Tony wondered aloud.

Pepper underlined a paragraph she had been reviewing, taking her time to add her own notation before responding, "Berkowitz, Chang, Johnson, and Smith are sending us two lawyers with expertise in international law."

As if they had been awaiting an introduction, the door to the conference room opened and Happy ushered in two men dressed in bespoke suits.

"Mr. Stark," one of them greeted, striding forward to shake his hand. "It's good to work with you again."

"Right," the billionaire replied. Tony honestly had no clue who this person was and, as long as he could win him this case, honestly didn't care. "Let's get started."

The set into the massive pile of documents, verifying details and putting together a timeline as they went. It took them nearly two hours to construct a big picture view that the lawyers deemed consistent enough. They gathered the pertinent documents into a large, haphazard heap in the center of the table, sorting things into it periodically in a system barely organized chaos. Finally, one of the lawyers - Johnson, maybe, or was it Smith? - set his pen down.

"This looks like a promising start," he spoke mostly to his partner. Then, he turned to address Tony and Pepper, "the documentation you've provided is an excellent basis. From this we can go several ways and either bury the UN in a mountain of paperwork or give them the bare essentials."

The other lawyer nodded, picking up as soon as his partner left off. "We'll compile a rough draft brief for you to review while we work on strategies moving forward. I'm confident that we will have a pat argument and positive supporting documents by next week's interview." He nodded to his partner when he finished.

The first lawyer picked up the thread of conversation easily, given the impression of a well oiled machine and leaving Tony with a slick impression, "in the meantime, we suggest contacting some of the individuals you aided in the bombings aftermath to see if they would consent to giving our office a statement."

"Of course, I'll have our publicist get right on that and coordinate with your firm," Pepper promised. "Thank you, gentlemen."

With that, the two lawyers rose in sync and gathered their copies of pertinent documents. Neither Tony or Pepper moved to help them. When they were done, both men reached out to shake the CEO's hand first before turning to the billionaire. Pepper's smile was clearly self-satisfied beneath it's polite veneer and Tony realized that these lawyers were just two more in a long line of businessmen that his fiance had clearly cowed with her determination and unflappable professionalism. Despite the situation, it honestly turned him on a little.

As soon as the closing door cut off their view of the retreating Johnson and Smith, Tony leaned back in his chair. Hands intertwined at the base of his skull, he turned a baleful glance to Pepper. "Why me? What did I ever do to deserve this?" the billionaire moaned.

"I don't know," Pepper started to say, hands on her hips and tone sardonic. "Was it the the year you spent stonewalling him in completely unsubtle ways? Or the time you left him on hold for 20 minutes while eating popcorn into the receiver? Or are you referring to the time when you had Peter smuggled across international borders as a child soldier to aid a venture capitalist in his private vendetta against a retired war veteran?"

"Retired my ass," Tony muttered mutinously. "I resent that accusation!"

Pepper didn't look impressed in the slightest. She glared at the billionaire before sinking back into her chair, a manicured hand covering her eyes, "What am I going to with you?" she asked, bemusement coloring her voice.

The suggestion of exactly what she could with him was on the tip of Tony's tongue when the door to the conference room swung open again. Happy blundered in, only realizing that he was interrupting a moment until he was already halfway across the room.

"So that didn't go terribly?" the man half-asked, half-stated, trying to recover his poise.

Tony shrugged noncommittally and Pepper nodded. "At least we have a path forward and a strategy to get us there."

No one spoke for a minute. Happy looked back and forth between the CEO and the billionaire, trying to understand what he had missed, before finally asking, "so what now?"

"Now," Tony beamed, an almost manic glint in his eye. "We commit perjury."

* * *

 **Sorry for the wait. I was out West visiting my inlaws and then spent a solid week obsessing over the new Good Omens show, so everything got backed up. This is more a filler chapter, just trying to keep the plot moving to the next big showdown, also a bit slapdash and hastily edited. It's been a while since I wrote from Tony's POV and really like Pepperony as a pairing. That turned into wanting to write some quiet moments between the two, so you get this. Between all of my health issues and the uncertainty they cause, I'm really learning to value the quiet moments.**

 **If you're curious on what Tony's letter said, so am I. Haven't quite figured out what he's going to say, but I will include it in the next chapter.**

 **Because I really need another distraction right now, I've been plagued by several story ideas that want to work their way out of my head and onto paper. The first is a Superfamily 5+1 story and the other would be giving Peter the type of cancer I'm being tested for and making him deal with all the shit I'm going through. Would you guys be interested either of those at all?**

 **Chapter title: If you guessed this was another WWI poem, you'd be right. It's almost like I have a degree in history or something. Poorly made jokes aside, the title of today's chapter is from the very famous poem "In Flanders Field" by John McCrae, a Canadian soldier and surgeon who sadly did not survive the war. This particular work is both a memorial poem and a charge to carry on the fight in the stead of those who had already died. I decided to use the line because Tony is, in some ways, gearing up to go into battle against the Accords in the stead of those who can't (Cap and co) and those he's protecting (Peter).**


	18. I know why the caged bird sings

The lab was nearly silent that morning as Peter worked on his latest project. Dr. Gottlieb was stuck in an all day supervisory meeting or, as he had so tactfully phrased it, the 'how to not make your new intern cry and other boring things' training. He had left after coffee that morning, mumbling about glitter bombing HR between yelling instructions at Benny. Peter, for once, had taken the smart course of action and remained hidden behind his computer terminal, dutifully typing up an Introduction to Lab Safety for the high school interns.

The assistant and the intern worked in relative silence, worlds apart from the loud presence of their supervisor and his questionable taste in music. Normally the lab would have been pumping with big band jazz or early rock'n'roll or, even worse, 19th century sea shanties. In all honesty and as much as Peter missed the energy of their normal lab days, he was grateful for the silence. He hadn't been this productive in a while. So when the ringing of the landline cut through the lab like a klaxon and startled the teen, he blamed it on the unusually quiet space instead of the alertness that buzzed at the base of his skull, constantly searching for danger.

Benny kicked off from his own computer terminal, sailing across the room on his rolling chair in an act that clearly violated rule #3 of Peter's safety manual: always respect your equipment. The lab assistant jerked to a halt near Dr. Gottlieb's workstation and waited for the fourth ring before snatching the phone from it's cradle, "Research and Development, Dr. Gottlieb's lab, Benjamin Yazzie speaking."

"Sorry to interrupt, but I was hoping to steal Peter away for some liaison duties," a voice filtered through the phone.

The teen glanced up from his manual, wondering who was talking and why they needed him. As far as he was aware, Dr. Gottlieb and an overly perky woman from HR named Sandy were the only ones working with him as liaison. He didn't recognize this new voice.

Benny shot Peter a glare from across the space. "Of course, I'll send him up."

"Just send him to the lobby," the voice on the other end of the phone instructed.

"Yes, sir," the lab assistant agreed before hanging up. "Come on, baby undergrad, they want you up in reception. Something about liaison duties."

"Oh?" Peter tried to sound surprised, he really did, but the question came out flat. Thankfully, Benny either didn't notice or didn't care about the slip.

"You've only got an hour left on shift, so if this takes longer than 20 minutes, go ahead and head home for the day," the lab assistant continued.

"Sure?" Peter mumbled, suddenly suspicious of the other man's insistence on getting him out of the lab.

"Go on, shoo," Benny bundled him out the door. His book bag was dropped beside him a minute later and Peter didn't even question when Benny had managed to snag it.

As the elevator doors were closing behind him, Peter could hear K-pop flowing from the lab, accompanied by Benny's singing. The teen whipped out his phone with a snigger. Oh man, this was going to be excellent blackmail material.

The elevator bank was practically empty when Peter stumbled out into the bright lobby. A few people still milled about, but the lunch rush had finally died down. The teen hurried over to reception and to the familiar figure of Happy seated in one of the painfully ergonomic chairs that dotted the lobby. Another man sat beside Happy, animatedly chatting away to the stone faced bodyguard. Peter smiled, at least he wasn't the only one Happy ignored.

"Kid," Happy greeted after Peter had come to a complete stop in front of him with a little wave.

"H-hi," the teen stuttered. Why was this his life? Why did he have to be so awkward?

"You must be Peter," the man next to Happy shot quickly to his feet and offered his hand. "I'm Jeremy, but you can call me Jer."

Peter reached out hesitantly to give it an indecisive shake, unsure of what to say. He cleared his throat before venturing a tentative, but hopefully professional, "What can I do for you?"

Jeremy - er, Jer - beamed a thousand kilowatt smile. "It's more what I can do for you, little man."

Peter looked up at Happy, hoping that his scrunched brows were enough to communicate his utter confusion. The older man sighed, one hand resting tentatively on the kid's shoulder, "don't look at me, this was Tony's idea."

"Right," Jeremy 'call me Jer' interrupted. "Peter, just follow me and I'll lay out the plan for you."

The teen allowed Happy to steer him back towards the elevator and down to the sublevels. Peter couldn't help but gawk when they spilled out into a state-of-the-art lab. "This looks just like Mr. Stark's lab!" he fawned over the equipment.

"That's because it is his lab," Happy answered. "He had most of this moved over from the Tower after the sale."

"Is he here?" the teen asked, excitement lighting up his eyes.

Happy looked back at him, seemingly unsurprised by the familiar nature of Peter's question. "No," he answered.

"Oh," Peter tried to quell the disappointment that threatened to show through.

"But he did ask me to give you this," the man tossed a brown paper bag at Peter.

The teen caught the package with ease, already knowing what would be inside it. There was a small note pinned to the front. Peter's hand shook slightly as he unfolded it:

Pete,  
All fixed and ready to go. New York wants its hero back. Good luck. And don't die, I have too many grey hairs as it is.  
~ you know who  
P.S. I can't talk openly right now. Only use my number for emergencies, but Karen can call anytime

Peter turned the note over several times, smiling at the hastily drawn chemical structure of iron. They were such nerds. And, holy shit, he needed to frame this. Actual real life proof that Tony Stark gave a shit about Peter Parker.

"I know everything is kinda messed up right now," Happy mumbled when Peter pocketed the note. "But we are still here for you, kid."

"Alright, Peter," Jer called, blundering into the moment without a care. "Just hop up on the table there and I'll explain how this is going to work.

The teen followed his directions and sat swinging his legs back and forth from atop the exam table, trying his best to keep from fidgeting as Jer took his vitals. Peter was curious about where exactly this was going.

"I'm not sure if Mr. Stark talked to you about physical therapy, but we were hoping to get a good baseline of your abilities to pair with the genetic studies we've already started," Jer explained. He leaned against the small counter next to the table and handed over a small stack of files. "Many of the tests you underwent at the end of your recovery at the Compound were pieced together to form a basic understanding of you physiology. Now we want to get a good idea of your physical attributes and make sure everything has finished healing."

"So physical therapy from hell then?" Peter joked, trying to cover how uncomfortable being a lab rat made him.

"In a way," the other man replied. "At the end of the summer I'll get you over to the Compound and we'll officially measure your speed, agility, endurance, strength, and see if we can't determine exactly what type of mutations we're working with here. For now though, I want to focus on conditioning."

Ignoring the teen's groan, Jer beckoned for him climb off the table. He led Peter through the main lab space and into a set of back rooms before stopping in what looked like a specialized gym. Happy trailed behind them, looking for all the world like he was trying to blend into the background and refrain from hovering. He failed at both.

"From what I understand, your strength is on par with Captain America's?" Jer half asked, half stated.

Peter could only shrug, "I dunno. I guess so? We've never fully tested it out. But I stole his shield once."

"Well okay then, this should prove interesting." The physical therapist looked slightly off-put by the abundance of Peter's teenage enthusiasm. "Why don't we start you off with body weight resistance exercises and move on from there?"

"Fine," the teen grudgingly agreed. "But if you bring out Jazzercise I am not responsible for what's going to happen to you."

The physical therapist roared with laughter, "fair enough, Pete. Fair enough."

Jeremy - call me "Jer" - turned out to actually be a competent and surprisingly charismatic physical therapist. His laid back manner quickly put Peter at ease and his gentle encouragements coaxed the teen through mind-numbingly repetitive exercises. However, Peter quickly realized that despite Jer's informal and affable air, the physical therapist was a driven taskmaster with his expectations that the teen couldn't help but strive towards. And, damnit, he'd been conned. Peter realized that now. This smiling scientist had quickly figured out which of Peter's buttons to press and was almost gleefully manipulating him into a better, stronger superhero. He hated that it worked.

The grueling torture session lasted nearly two hours before Jer seemed satisfied in Peter's work. He shoved the teen out the door with a predatory smile and the promise of bi-weekly meetings. Sore and aching, Peter stumbled into the streets of New York, bypassing the train as he opted for the long walk home.

"Peter?" May's voice called out as soon as he opened the door to their apartment.

"Yeah?" the teen answered, shutting the door with his heel and plunking his keys into their knick-knacks dish by the entrance. The laces on his sneakers seemed determined to stay knotted and it took a concerted effort to get them untangled. When he turned back to the living room, he was startled to see his aunt standing in front of him with hands on her hips. Oh no, he mused silently, what had he done now?

"I was worried," May didn't beat around the bush. "You're over an hour late and your phone is off."

Peter cursed, hand flying to his back pocket for his Stark Phone when he realized that he'd never turned it back on after work. "I am so sorry, there was some extra work they needed me to do and then I met this kid named Jerem-Jer and he put me through this horrible exercise routine and Happy was there and apparently they're supposed to be helping me figure out exactly what my physical limits and abilities are and stuff and I-"

May pulled Peter into a tight hug, cutting off his babbling. The teen stood still for a minute, not sure what was going on and then his brain caught up with the situation and his arms wrapped equally tight around his aunt. "I'm sorry," he whispered into her neck.

"No," May whispered back. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have overreacted. It's good that you're doing so well at work and Tony did mention that he was going to have you work with a physical therapist. I must have forgot and I just assumed it was like the last time you didn't pick up your phone."

The woman didn't need to spell out the last time Peter had failed to answer his phone. That was a memory that was going to haunt both of them for years to come. With a small sniffle, May pulled away to hold the teen at arm's length, looking him over critically. "You look hungry."

"Starving," Peter's stomach gurgled in agreement with his statement.

"Well we can't have that," May tsked. "Why don't I order takeout from Xing's and we watch a movie?"

"Sound great," Peter agreed. He vaulted over the back of the couch and sunk into it's well-worn cushions, leaving May to figure out food. The afternoon was warm and before his aunt even had a chance to finish placing their regular order, the teen was asleep.

Peter woke up some time later to the smell of food and the soft glow of the television in the darkened space. Hang on, was it nighttime already? How long had he been asleep? May stood in front of the couch, enraptured by the low buzz of the TV playing.

The teen sat up slowly, eyes flicking over to the screen when May still didn't move. Christine Everhart looked imperiously out of the TV, eyes seeming to inexplicably bore into the viewer. "Today New Hampshire Police and the FBI have reported the capture of over ten men and women believed to be responsible for the metro bombings in Washington DC earlier this summer, bringing an end to the eight week manhunt. While the identities of the individuals have yet to be released, a source close to the investigation has confirmed that they belong to the National Defence Alliance, a paramilitary group with members in New Hampshire and Vermont. For more on the story we go live to our WHIH correspondent on the ground. Adam, what can you tell us about this latest development?"

"Thank you, Christine," a young man in a crisp suit and slightly mussed hair filled the screen before the camera panned out to the scene behind him. "As you can see, I am outside of the lodge where the members of the NDA have been hiding for the last month. Police aren't allowing us any closer while the scene is still being processed, but so far we have seen several individuals being apprehended."

Peter ducked his head, pretending not to watch the news coverage. May stood still before the TV for several minutes, one hand covering her mouth and the other still loosely holding the remote. For several minutes, no one said anything. It felt like all the air had been sucked out of their space and the teen was living off of nothing but the oxygen already in his lungs.

"I'm going to go work on school or something - yeah," Peter breathed into the vacuum of their living room, trying not to choke on his words.

May nodded, still staring at the TV in shock. She didn't look away when Peter slid off the couch. And she didn't follow when he slunk into his room. The teen could still hear the low hum of the news channel as he crawled into bed.

Images of blood and dust filled his dreams and he woke up crying. He called out for May, but no answer came. Her shoes were gone from beside the door and her bed still made. It took Peter's panic riddled mind several minutes to realize that she was working third shift that week. A note on the kitchen counter told him that his leftovers were in the fridge and she'd hopefully be back in time to make him lunch. Without a second thought, the teen flew back to his room and snatched the brown paper bag up from his desk. His mask was a familiar weight in his hand, the fabric clinging to his scalp and face as he pulled it over his head.

"Hello, Peter" the voice of Karen immediately greeted him. "It's good to see you again."

Peter choked on his next inhale. God, how could he forget about the AI?

"You are in distress. Would you like me to call one of your emergency contacts?" she asked.

"Please," the teen sobbed. "Please just be quiet for a little while. I just need quiet."

Immediately Karen cut off and receded. The teen could still hear a low hum in the background and knew that the AI was still listening, ready to problem solve if needed. But he didn't care right now. He needed to get out. Get away. Find someone that could help.

Peter was out the window and onto the roof before he had even processed slipping on his web-shooters. His shaking wrist extended and a carefully calculated string of web fluid shot out, the recoil jerking him a bit, before latching on to the building across the street. He gave it a firm tug to make sure it was secure before leaning out and letting himself fall. It had been so long since he'd felt the wind rip past him as he tumbled, listened to the familiar sounds of Queens, or swung over to Manhattan to see the city lights by night. He had forgotten how loud and bright it all was.

"Lights out! Lights out!" Peter begged. Immediately the lenses whirred down and darkened, sound all but cut off, and while the usual city smells didn't fully go away, they were at least more bearable.

He clung to the wall of the apartment building, breathing harshly and waiting for his senses to accept the reduced stimuli. When he felt like he had control of his movements again, Peter swung off in the direction of help. At least this was a route he knew by heart. The teen soared out over the borough, tracking the cross streets beneath him. Queens boulevard was easy enough to find even in the dark and then he just had to follow it up to 51st. A dark building outlined in soft, glowing light loomed up ahead of him and Peter crashed into the roof, rolling for several feet before coming to a stop in a boneless heap. His bare torso protested the rough landing and he was fairly certain that he had ripped bloody holes into the knees of his favorite pajama pants.

"Call Ned," the teen told Karen and immediately was rewarded with the muted ringing of a phone. If his mask wasn't currently blocking out sound, the hero was sure he could have heard the cell phone ringing three floors below.

"'llo?" the groggy voice of Ned answered on the third ring. "Wasss going on?"

"Ned?" Peter whimpered.

"Peter!?" the other teen called insistently down the line, sleep vanishing from his voice. "What's wrong? Dude, are you okay? Are you hurt?"

Ned's questions came rapid fire and frantic and Peter couldn't bring himself to answer them. Instead, he groaned.

"You're scaring me," his best friend certainly sounded scared. "Where are you?"

"Roof," Peter huffed out.

Ned swore lowly over the line and Peter could hear him banging around his apartment. "What roof, Peter?"

The superhero forced himself to breath for a minute before he was able to cry out, "yours!" He grabbed the mask, yanking it off of his head even as Ned promised to be right there. With the last of his strength, he flung the mask down onto the roof, staring into the lenses as they landed next to him. Sight and sound hit him like a physical wall, assaulting what little control over his senses Peter still had. Everything was too much. He'd seen too much and he hadn't been strong enough to withstand it. He had failed in so many ways. Failed to save Marie. Failed to save himself. Failed to die when so many others had perished. How could he continue saving people if couldn't even pull himself together?

Peter was a sobbing, shaking mess when Ned finally burst through the access door several minutes later. Even in the throes of a panic attack, the teen recognized the safe person and allowed himself to be pulled into warm arms.

"Oh shit," Ned mumbled as he rocked his friend. "It's okay, it's okay. I got you."

The images of dust and blood slowly faded to the edges of Peter's mind, but a deep feeling of helplessness washed over him in its place. The teen breathed evenly through the crash of emotion. Dr. Hope had talked him through this before and, almost unconsciously, Peter found himself thinking through the list of positive steps he was making,. He reviewed each one individually as his head desperately tried to convince his heart that it wasn't his fault. There was nothing he could have done to save them. But the part inside that had roared to life after Ben's death screamed back that he hadn't been fast enough, smart enough, strong enough. He hadn't been enough.

It took nearly ten minutes for Peter to come down from the adrenaline rush as he carefully focused on nothing but the feel of scraped knees biting into the concrete. It scared him how much the physical pain grounded him.

Ned was still murmuring lowly to him - "it's okay, you're fine" - over and over again, sounding like he was on the verge of his own panic attack.

Peter sat upright, pulling away from Ned. His best friend stuttered off into silence and eyed him with wide eyes. "I'm okay," Peter didn't sound convincing even to his own ears.

"Why don't we go downstairs? I'll let May know where you are and my mom can make pancakes tomorrow?" Ned babbled, levering himself upright.

His friend held out the crumpled mask to Peter. The teen reached out to take it, but stopped short. He couldn't. He didn't deserve it. Spiderman was strong; Peter was weak. Spiderman was a hero, he saved people; Peter let them die. "My fault," he whispered brokenly, staring at the mask.

"Oh, Peter," Ned sounded world weary and more than a little heartbroken. Peter blanched, a teenager should not sound like that at all. His best friend should be carefree with no concerns bigger than SATs and college prep. Peter had done this to him, dragged him into this world of uncertainty.

"My fault," he repeated.

Ned sighed, taking a gentle hold of Peter's elbow and steering him towards the access door. "Nothing is your fault. Except maybe the dent in my death star," he assured.

Peter sniffled, wrestling for control of his emotions. He let Ned lead him down the three flights of stairs and down the hall to his apartment. The space still smelled strongly of orange cleaner, pani popo, and NYC smog. The wave of relief that passed over Peter was physically heavy, sagging against his shoulders and nearly dropping him to his knees. Safety; this place smelled like safety.

"That's it," Ned encouraged, steering him towards his room and over the detritus forming a half ring around the teen's bed. "Just stay here a moment."

Peter sagged face first into the sheets, inhaling the scent of Ned. His enhanced hearing easily followed Ned's trek to his parents bedroom and listened in on their hushed conversation. It took Ned nearly ten minutes to convince his parents that a) Peter was okay, b) he would text May and let her know what was going on and c) that Peter could stay at least until the morning.

"You owe me one," Ned mumbled when he tripped back into his room.

Peter grunted, "probably." He could think of how to pay his friend back later. Right now he needed to sleep before his brain melted out through his ears.

Ned curled around him as much as he could on the small mattress. They were long past the days when both boys were able to spend sleepovers together in Ned's daybed. However, neither of them seemed to care about the cramped space at the moment. They were simply happy to draw reassurance from the other's presence.

"Go to sleep," Ned whispered. "It's okay."

Peter gratefully gave in to the suggestion, letting his body sink fully into the mattress beneath him. The teen knew that Ned was too worked up to follow his own suggestion and while part of him felt guilty for doing that to his friend, the majority of Peter's barely conscious mind was grateful that his friend was there for him. Peter fell asleep with the other boy both literally and figuratively watching his back. This time he dreamed of legos, movie marathons, and the smell of pani popo.

* * *

 **Ah yiss, platonic cuddles are the best cuddles. Asexual mood for life.**

 **A few notes on the bombers: I decided to go with a paramilitary group since I used high order explosives. In some ways, this was modeled after the Oklahoma City bombing given that it was domestic terror attack carried out by individuals with anti-government sentiments. I wanted to avoid religion as a possible motivator given the recent terror attacks around the world. That left me with a choice between political or cultural motivations. I decided to go more along the lines of a militia due to the fact that I am more familiar with right wing violence/rhetoric than I am with other forms of political violence. Please excuse the thought process here, I'm not trying to paint conservatives in a bad light, I just defaulted to writing what I know. For those who aren't familiar with me irl, I grew up in the far-right homeschooling movement that the Duggars (19 Kids and Counting) are from. Some of the more extreme people valued their HSLDA and NRA memberships and talked about forming a militia. When my parents divorced, my father fucked off to the West after years of talking about wanting to join a militia. I don't know if he actually did it because I haven't been in contact with him for years, but I know he always wanted to. Anyways, this is my explanation for why I chose the particular motivation that I did. Is it stereotypical? Yes, it is, but I wasn't sure how to do it another way.**

 **The other thing I wanted to note is that I have purposefully not focused on the bombers or their motives for another reason. This story is supposed to follow Peter's recovery and one of the struggles of PTSD/acute stress is avoidance. In avoiding news coverage of the bombing and mention of either those who died or those who carried it out, Peter is trying to minimize his reactions. Is it a convenient way for me to dodge having to deal with the implications of why there even was a bombing? Yes, it is.**

 **I also wanted to touch on Peter's struggles to take back up the mantle of Spider-Man. For this chapter in particular I really wanted to explore how Peter relates to Spiderman and how Spiderman relates to everything that has happened to him since DC. Because, you know, he wouldn't be Peter Parker without an unhealthy dose of self-blame. And then that got sidetracked by Ned showing up even though I hadn't planned to write about him again for another few chapters. Oh well, it gave me an excuse to write boys who aren't emotionally constipated, so yay?**

 **Chapter title: Alright, a break from WWI poems. The title of today's chapter comes from Maya Angelou's 1969 poem "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings" (also the title of her autobiography), which in turn was inspired by the themes and lines of Paul Dunbar's 1872 poem "Sympathy." Both of these works deal directly with the themes of slavery and racism in the US during the Reconstruction and Civil Rights eras. It also alludes directly to arguments by white supremacists/pro-slavery writers that African-Americans' (whether slaves or exploited laborers) singing in the fields and on the job proved that they were content, or sometimes even happy, with their lives. Both poets directly contradicted this idea with their assertions that the caged bird sings as a prayer for a better life, as a way to express the misery they were legally and culturally disallowed to speak of, and as a way to shoulder their burdens.**

 **I hesitate to use this poem in the same vein that I hesitated to use Kipling. Whereas Kipling's work is often racist (see "The White Man's Burden" and its impact on American imperialism. Also see Mark Twain's response "To the Person Sitting in Darkness"), Dunbar and Angelou are writing of the pain and captivity of racial discrimination. I don't want to misrepresent their works by applying them to Peter, who is very white, however the imagery of "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings" has, in some ways, transcended its original meaning. Peter is not the captive of slavery or systemic racism, but he is a captive of his expectations and emotions. So take this for what you will.**


	19. The torch be yours to hold it high

The UN Secretariat building was a wonderful mess of natural lighting and jumbled spaces. Tony couldn't help but compare it to his own, admittedly over the top, taste in architecture and interior design as he hurried along its corridors. Visitors, staff, and aides clogged the hallways on his route to conference room #13. Most managed not to stare at the billionaire, but a few gaped openly as he passed by.

"Is that Tony Stark?" the whispers followed him.

Certainly not for the last time that day, Tony was grateful for his entourage. Pepper, Rhodey, and his legal team were highly conspicuous next to him and just intimidating enough to keep people from approaching. After everything that had happened in the last few months, the billionaire was very much not in the mood to deal with fans and his companions knew it. The group pressed on through the hallways. Tony couldn't help the nervousness coursing through his system as they drew nearer to conference room #13. He stared down at the black and white tiles underfoot to avoid meeting anyone's stare, afraid that his eyes would betray his emotions.

Almost there, boss. FRIDAY broadcasted the reassurance over his glasses. Tony was immensely grateful that he had managed to sneak her past security.

"This is it," Rhodey's voice, along with his arm on the billionaire's shoulder, prevented him from ploughing straight into the entrance of his destination.

Tony looked up at the door in front of him and took a deep breath. He could do this.

"Just like we practised," one of his lawyers - Smith or Johnson or something like that - advised.

The second lawyer echoed the first, "answer their questions but do not give more information than necessary. We'll shut down anything egregious or unduly off topic. Remember, you are here voluntarily and in full cooperation with the Accords."

Tony nodded at the man, Johnson, his mind finally connected the face with the name. He took a deep breath and squared with the door, hand poised to push it open. A small hand slipped into his outstretched one before he could do anything, squeezing his fingers lightly.

"Good luck in there," Pepper's voice ghosted in his ear, tickling his sideburns. She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before pulling away.

"You got this man," Rhodey encouraged, holding the door open for his friend.

With shoulders back and head held high, Tony strode into the room with a confidence that was only skin deep. The room that greeted him was almost ordinary with its simple furnishings and sedate atmosphere. In fact, the whole thing would have been downright informal had it not been for the five painfully professional people seated on the other side of a large, glass table.

"Mr. Stark," General Ross greeted. The man didn't even look up from his paperwork as he gestured for Tony to sit. "How nice of you to finally join us."

Tony settled into the offered chair and used the customary act of unfastening the lowest button on his suit jacket as cover for taking a calming breath. Christ, he needed to get himself under control. This whole situation was nothing new. He had spent years bandying about with politicians and navigating the world of the socially elite. So why was he so nervous now?

The answer hit him like a gut punch: straight to the stomach and equally as nauseating. It was the kid. With startling clarity, the billionaire realized that he was less worried about his own skin in this den of lions and more concerned about Peter's. This hearing had the potential to cast a spotlight on the teenage vigilante that could lead to his unmasking or, at the very least, would put Peter Parker on Ross' radar. And that was not something that ever ended well for those involved. All that Tony could do now was distract the panel, hog the spotlight in true Stark style and hope that no one would pick at Peter's life. The billionaire cursed under his breath, he had let himself get too close to the kid. He had become invested. And now here he was.

To ground himself, Tony surveyed the figures seated across the table. Four delegates and Ross made up the interview panel. He immediately recognized the UK delegate, Daniel O'neill, from previous Accords task forces. Having grown up in 1970s Derry, O'neill was an expert on counter-terrorism and urban violence. He was also a vocal opponent of enhanced individuals operating unregistered or outside frankly draconian guidelines. He would be a hard - if not impossible - sell.

Seated next to O'neill was Charles Mbabu, the delegate from Wakanda. King T'challa spoke highly of him and his record was favorable towards enhanced individuals. Tony was hopeful that he would be receptive to his argument, he really needed an easy win.

Ross looked imposing sitting center among the delegates. He was ignoring Tony's legal team as they introduced themselves and passed out extra hard copies of the defense brief they had expertly cobbled together. The billionaire internally snorted at the man's obvious power play. In situations like these Ross could be about as subtle as a star spangled brick through a Kremlin window. It was a wonder how he managed to hold on to a position of influence for so long.

A small woman with large grey eyes was seated next to Ross, looking uncomfortable to be in the General's vicinity. She was the new Sokovian delegate, a mid-term replacement after the previous representative had taken ill. The polished name plate in front of her introduced her as Radka Zelenkova, but beyond that Tony knew very little. She was a complete wild card.

Yu Ji-ho was the last member of the panel. The billionaire knew him only by his reputation: a fierce man with an even fiercer temper. He believed that the only place enhanced individuals belonged was under the thumb of the military or relegated to comic books and folk tales. There was very little hope of winning him over.

"Are we ready?" Ross queried to the other panel members, breaking Tony from his thoughts.

A general consensus of nods and mumbled ascents answered him. He smiled across the table, reminding Tony of a shark. "Very well, let's begin."

"As you are aware," Ross began. "This inquiry is examining Iron Man's involvement in the DC metro bombing. It is in response to concerns on the part of local first responders and the governing body of the Sokovia Accords."

Tony had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes. Those "concerns" probably amounted to nothing more than that butthurt officer from metro PD following through on his threat of complaining. Leave it to Ross, the man never missed the opportunity to drag his name through the mud. His ego was nearly as big as Tony's own.

Ross paused to drag out the moment as long as possible, "we have reviewed your brief as well as the supporting documentation, but we still have several questions."

"Of course," Tony tried to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. One of his lawyers cleared his throat suggestively and the billionaire sighed, but followed the direction, "lay it on me."

The UK delegate jumped at the opportunity, "according to your brief and statements from DC Fire and Rescue, Iron Man arrived on the scene almost two hours after the initial explosion. Could you clarify the reason for this delay in response."

Tony nodded, "I was in a quarterly R&D budget meeting and wasn't immediately aware of the attack." The man didn't even have to lie on that one. At least they were starting out easy and truthful.

"And how exactly were you made aware of the situation?" O'neill followed up his original question.  
"I received a call from a Stark Industries employee trapped in the attack that my AI pushed through as urgent," Tony gestured to the brief as he explained, annoyed that they were forcing him to repeat events which had already been laid out in black and white for them.

"And do you routinely answer calls from unknown numbers on your work phone ?" the UK delegate asked.

"Only when I'm in a meeting," Tony joked, eliciting a few chuckles. Good, the billionaire thought, at least he could provoke some type of positive response.

Yu held up a hand for silence and the low tittering died out. "Why this bombing, Mr. Stark? There have certainly been many opportunities for you to intervene in the past. Why this one?"

Tony was ready for this question and immediately pounced, "you're right, these past few years have seen a depressing number of attacks on civilians. However, most have been handled quickly by local first responders and I would only have gotten in the way of their efforts. The DC bombing was different in two ways. First, it trapped many people and, as I detailed in the brief, Stark Industries is currently contracted with the State of New York to develop technology for first responders to use in situations markedly similar. This was a situation where my aid and technology could help. Secondly, one of those still strapped in the metro station was the high school intern that works for my top scientist. This was personal, in a way."

"And what exactly is your relationship with that intern? A Mr.-" Radka Zelenkova, the Sokovian delegate, paused to flip through the brief in search of a name, "Parker."

Tony kept an expertly schooled expression at her question, only allowing himself to curse on the inside. It had been his fervent hope to avoid having to talk about Peter during questioning. But he had prepared for this. The billionaire sipped at the water that had miraculously appeared in front of him before folding his hands on the table, "As far as I'm aware Peter Parker is SI's first high school intern and is currently filling the role of liaison for the new high school STEM exposure program."

"As far as you are aware?" Ross cut in with a derisive snort.

"That's correct," Tony answered. "I had only briefly met him in the New York satellite office before the bombing. I honestly interacted with his work and prototype proposals more than I ever did the kid." That one wasn't actually a lie when he got right down to it. The vast majority of his engagement with Peter was due to Spiderman. He was, in all depressing honesty, more familiar with the Peter the teenage superhero than he was with Peter the angsty teenager.

"Having a high school intern with direct ties to Iron Man is a bit unusual, isn't it Mr. Stark?" Ross's question was biting, more of an accusation than anything else. "When did it become Stark Industries' policy to even hire high school students?"

"You'll have to talk to the director of HR on that one," Tony answered. "I don't closely follow current hiring policies any more. As the panel, and most of the world, is fully aware, I stepped down as CEO of Stark Industries nearly ten years ago in order to focus on the research and development side of the business as well as my work as Iron Man. Dr. Gottlieb, one of my top R&D scientists, is responsible for both onboarding Peter Parker and championing SI's new high school work program. There's a statement from him in the brief I provided you with if you'd like to know more details than I can give you."

General Ross made a show of examining the brief in front of him that contained Dr. Gottlieb's statement before honing in on his point, "so you could say that Mr. Parker is a special case?"

Tony snorted. He couldn't help himself, if only it was safe to let the panel know just how special of a case Peter truly was.

"I fail to see what is so amusing about this," Ross glowered at Tony, ignoring the subtle prodding from the UK delegate next to him.

"And I don't see how this is relevant," Tony replied, not able to hold back the acid in his voice.

"We are simply trying to establish your motivations, Mr. Stark," Ross patronized.

The billionaire, however, was quick to pick up on the body language of the delegates facing him. Good, it looked like several of them were seeing through Ross's poorly disguised personal bias. He looked directly at the general when he responded, "yes, you could say that Peter Parker is a special case. However, if you turn to the section of my brief containing his original employment proposal, you will see that it is his truly remarkable mind that makes him a special case. Stark Industries would have been a fool to pass up the massive potential of his intellectual property. I believe Dr. Gottlieb's team is currently developing several major biochemical advances in the medical field thanks to Mr. Parker's work."

"Be that as it may," Ross pressed onward. "Why would you make the trip all the way to DC for a high school kid and a few people who, at the time, even the first responders weren't sure were still alive?"

Both of the lawyers on either side of Tony tensed before Smith cut in, "all of the pertinent details have been listed in the documents submitted to your office. Please keep your line of questioning-"

"No," Tony held up his hand, stopping the lawyer before he could really get started. "I'll answer that."

The billionaire leaned forward in his chair, holding Ross' gaze evenly, "I'm not sure if you saw my interview with WHiH news a few weeks ago, but I meant every word of it. In a post 9/11 world, terrorism is something that touches all Americans deeply and me especially. How could it not? I don't need to remind you of the weeks I spent as a captive of Ten Rings in Afghanistan or the fact that I publicly dared a terrorist to come and face me. This is hardly the most brash thing I've ever done and I'll be damned if I leave anyone I can help to a fate that I have personally witnessed."

"We don't mean to imply that you don't care," Zelenkova interrupted, ignoring the glare from Ross that clearly said that was exactly what he had wanted to imply.

"On the contrary," delegate Yu cut in. "I, for one, would like to know why your caring matters? What gives you the right over others to interject yourself into an organized response without a specific request for aid?"

Johnson scowled at the adversarial tone, but gave Tony a subtle nod to answer. The billionaire's body language was carefully disarming and his tone soft when he replied, "Well geez, I saw a need and I filled it. You can hardly blame me for wanting to save lives."

"No," Yu conceded. "But we can blame you should your hero complex cost people their lives."

"I fail to see how that is relevant to the current situation," Johnson took the lead this time.

'We are simply trying to determine how to address Mr. Stark's actions within the confines of the Accords," there was a patronizing smile on Ross' face as he spoke to the lawyer but stared at Tony. If something were to happen to that man's face, the billionaire would not have lost a moment of sleep over it. But he needed to keep the general from getting under his skin if he was going to come out on top of this. Tony sucked in a breath that come out again as a long huff.

"I understand that there are still areas of the Accords that need to be ironed out and that there is potential for future scenarios ending in disaster, but I would like to return to the matter at hand. Could you clarify what procedure you followed once you were on the scene?" Charles Mbabu, the Wakandan delegate, asked. Whether or not the man had meant to offer him an out, Tony certainly wasn't going to question it.

"I broadcasted my assistance to the emergency frequency and coordinated with Chief Hart once I was on site," the billionaire dutifully answered.

"But not before you simply barged in?" Yu followed up the original question before the Wakandan delegate had the chance to get a word in edgewise. It was clear that the man was upset over being interrupted in the first place.

Tony stiffened in his seat, trying to keep a firm grip on his temper. These self-righteous bastards were really starting to get on his nerves. "I made every attempt to coordinate with rescue efforts before my arrival," he dodged the question, ploughing through Yu's sputtered disbelief.

"It's a yes or no question, Mr. Stark," Ross bit out, clearly frustrated. "Did you or did you not enter the Smithsonian Metro Station without prior authorization? Bear in mind, please, that the whole world witnessed your actions on May 4th."

And there it was. This was the corner that they were going to back Tony into. "Yes," he answered. "I did, but-"

"Thank you, Mr. Stark," Yu cut him off, clearly signalling that any further explanation would not be accepted.

From the other end of the table, the UK delegate raised one hand for attention. He waited until Tony's gaze was firmly fixed on him before proceeding. "And why did you enter an unknown and potentially unstable situation? I know you touch on this in your brief, but please explain further for the record," O'neill finished with a shrug.

Tony inhaled sharply. They were in the deep end now. He wiped suddenly sweaty palms on his thighs, trying to hide the nervous gesture beneath the table. "When I arrived at the station, it became clear that one of the areas where people were still trapped was rapidly destabilizing. The kid wouldn't have made it if I had stopped to report in."

"And that excuses your actions?" Yu asked.

The billionaire snapped, anger finally escaping his grasp to invade his voice, "The UN is the one always going on about how precious all life is. I would think you of all people wouldn't question the actions taken to save a life."

"We do when it puts other lives in jeopardy," the South Korean delegate answered quietly. He held Tony's glare until the billionaire glanced away. "Need I remind that the Sokovia Accords are in direct response to your penchant for recklessly determining what you believe to be the greater good?

"You know what I think?" Tony asked. "I think you are trying to turn this conversation into hypotheticals and possibilities rather than address the fact that my actions helped save lives that day!"

"Mr. Stark!" Ross reproached. "You need to calm down."

"I am calm!" the billionaire shot back, ignoring the warning glare that his lawyer sent him. He'd play their game, even operate by their rules, but one - no one - could insinuate what Peter's life was worth in the grand scheme of things.

The Sokovian delegate spoke up for the second time that morning, jumping in before another voice could overpower her, "Gentlemen! This is getting us nowhere. Please, let's return to the topic at hand."

A tense silence followed her suggestion, anger simmering just below its surface. Tony debated the consequences of storming out before the rational part of his mind overrode his temper. Reacting wouldn't help the situation. He just had to grit his teeth and push on. One thing was for certain though, he'd be damned if he made it easy for them.

"Of course," Ross spoke into the silence, contempt barely concealed in his tone. "We can always revisit this conversation at a later time. Now, does anyone else have questions for Mr. Stark?"

Charled Mbabu took the offer immediately and asked Tony to expand the efforts that had been coordinated with the crisis response team. With a sigh of relief, the billionaire answered the Wakandan delegate without hesitation. This would be the easy part.

The panel grilled him for what felt like hours over every little detail of his actions. No stone was left unturned and at times Tony was forced to creatively stretch the truth into a passable argument that hopefully wouldn't come back to bite him in the ass later down the line. However, the truly dangerous part of the questioning was over and the billionaire, with the help of his lawyers and a few reminders from FRIDAY, was able to navigate the panel's questions with a practiced ease. Sometimes Tony wished he had actually taken those theater lessons his mother had suggested, he would have been a damn good actor.

Finally. Finally , the questions came to an end. Tony surveyed the delegates in front of him. After a long session of back and forths, forced politeness, and simmering anger, the representatives had run out of things to pick over. The billionaire considered each one as his lawyers wrapped up the last of the review. He was fairly certain that he'd managed to get Mbabu and Zelenkova in his corner. Now all Tony needed was one more person on his side and he would have a majority. It was clear that Yu and Ross were lost causes. They seemed dead set against his actions, or maybe it was his mere existence that annoyed them so much. It certainly wouldn't have been the first time that he had inspired such a response. O'neill was the billionaire's best best, he just had to hold out hope that he had gotten through to the delegate.

"Do you have any closing remarks or questions, Mr. Stark?" O'neill's question broke Tony from his thoughts.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do," the billionaire took a moment to clear his throat and gather his thoughts. And then he was launching into his speech with all the confidence and poise he brought to his public persona.

"If you want me to apologize for what I did in May 4th, then I'm afraid you'll be sorely disappointed." Tony spoke deliberately, keeping his tone even. "What I did that day helped save lives. There's a teenager, who yes is in my employ, that will live to graduate high school. There's a young mother who got to go home to her kids. There's a Department of Homeland Security worker who got to return to the job he's worked so hard to get and the family that he never thought he'd see again."

Tony paused to sip some water and clear his throat. This next point was the one he had been itching to make the entire session and he would be damned if he messed it up. "Along with the efforts of Metro PD and the Washington Fire and EMS services, we saved the lives of at least 20 people and helped over 50 additional survivors to safety. The crisis response to the DC metro bombing is far from a breach of the Accords and is in fact a highlight of what can happen when enhanced individuals and law enforcement work together within the confines of the law. What we did on May 4th saved many lives and that is not something that can be denied or ignored."

Tony rose from his seat and gestured to the brief that had been put together in his defence. "It is my firm belief that the Accords should foster cooperation between the government and enhanced individuals in response to crises. The DC metro bombing and the overwhelmingly positive reception by the local government and emergency services show that we have everything to gain by working together. However, if we continue to stifle the growth of positive partnerships with enhanced individuals and actively work to suppress their meaningful contribution to today's diverse and globalized world, we stand to lose everything."

"Have I made mistakes in the past? Yes, and I take full responsibility for them, which is why I supported the Accords and their implementation," Tony surveyed the panel to gauge their reactions. Most kept their expressions carefully schooled, but Ross was openly scowling, looking like he was ready to jump in and stop the man from talking at any minute. He had better finish this quickly, "but my involvement in the DC metro bombing crisis response was not one of those mistakes and it should not warrant this level of investigation. It should instead serve as an example of what can happen when the individuals governed by the Accords and their local governments present a united front. After all, the prevention of conflict and the cooperation of many different races, genders, sexualities, cultures, religions, philosophies, and abilities are the core tenants behind this organization and its practices."

The billionaire sat down, loosening the bottom button of his suit and straightening his tie. None of the panel members looked at him. A few whispered amongst themselves while others shuffled through the mountain of papers before them. Ross made a show of scrutinizing Tony's brief before the Wakandan delegate beside him cleared his throat suggestively.

Ross grumbled in clear annoyance, "thank you for your argument, Mr. Stark. I'm sure it was well rehearsed. Now, if the panel has no further questions," he paused and waited for a general murmur of agreement before continuing, "then you are dismissed. We will be in touch regarding the final decision of our inquiry."

The general gathered his papers together, a puckered expression pinching his face into a disgusted mask. Tony got the distinct impression of a man sucking on a lemon. With some generally polite nods from the rest of the panel, the billionaire rose from his seat and led his legal team out of the office. He managed to keep an even pace until he was out of sight; it was only then that he allowed himself to release the breath that he had been holding.

"How did it go?" Rhodey asked, falling into step beside Tony as he strode purposefully for the exit.

Tony shrugged, "I think it went about as well as it could have with Ross involved. We'll just have to wait and see how much he wants to risk over this."

Pepper was waiting for him by the door. She fell into step on his other side, purposefully flanking him. "Alright boys, the reporters are waiting outside and Happy has the car ready. Just push through, drop a comment, and keep going. We'll have time for a press conference after the official decision."

"No backdoor this time?" Rhodey asked.

"No," The CEO answered. "Audrey thinks it would be best to jump ahead of the UN here and get the public on our side. Be visible and be positive."

She shoved a card into Tony's hands, "we've prepared some comments for you to choose from."

The billionaire stared down at the card in his hands that contained Pepper's carefully thought out comments. With one swift movement, he shoved the card in his pocket. He was Tony fucking Stark and he knew what he wanted to say. "Alright, let's do this."

Rhodey clapped him on the shoulder, "good luck, man. I'll meet you back at the complex." He ducked away and sped off towards his office.

Tony nodded once, allowing Pepper to dust off his shoulders and straighten his tie. His fingers fiddled absently at his cufflinks, a nervous habit that had never quite left him. Pepper nodded at him once, her own subtle reassurance before she opened the doors ushered him out into the bright daylight. Almost immediately, a gaggle of several reporters surrounded them. The press of bodies was tight enough for Tony to smell the sickly sweet scents of cologne, deodorant, and sweat combined into the cloying odor of humans.

"Mr. Stark?!" the mingle of voices shouted at him. Cameras, mics, and lights crowded around him, the reporters barely visible behind the mass of technology.

A pretty brunette reporter shoved a smartphone into his face, shouting over it, "Why is the UN questioning you in regards to Iron Man?"

"I cannot comment on current United Nations proceedings, but I can tell you that we are working on paving the way for positive partnership between enhanced individuals and law enforcement in a more official capacity,"

"What type of partnership, Mr. Stark?" a reporter hiding behind a CNN mic asked.

Tony shook his head in answer and continued pushing through the crowd. He could just see Happy waiting by the car through the gap between two elbows.

A Stark Phone was shoved in his face by another person, "can you comment on whether or not this is related to your involvement in the DC metro bombing?"

"Do you have anything to say to General Ross and those criticizing your involvement as a first responder?" another reporter asked over the top of the first.

"We have no further comment at this time," Pepper addressed the throng as Happy hurried Tony into the car. She slid in next to him, allowing the driver to shut the door behind her. Happy sank into the front seat a moment later and pulled out onto the busy New York City streets leaving the flashing lights behind them.

"Well that went about as terribly as it always does," Tony lamented.

Pepper turned on him with fire in her eyes. "You didn't use any of the points I gave you!" she groused.

"So what?!" Tony snapped harsher than he meant. Pausing a moment to breathe, he let the tension fall from his shoulders before adding on, "I said what I meant and I meant what I said. Ross was stupid enough to get himself into this firestorm and I'll be damned if I can't get the media to help me back him into a corner."

"Which is why we have to play this carefully," Pepper tried to reason.

Tony huffed, crossing his arms and looking away from his fiance, "I am being careful."

The partition separating Happy from the rest of the car slid up in the tense silence that followed. Coward, Tony bitterly cursed in his head.

Pepper sighed, patting the billionaire's clenched hand. "I know what you're doing here and it's admirable, but Peter needs you to get through this, not paint a bigger target on your back."

"Have you met me?" Tony questioned. "Painting a target on my back is one of my many endearing qualities."

His fiance looked away from him, shoulders tense. "I don't know why I bother," she mumbled furiously.

"Whatever," Tony ignored her. He turned to stare out at the city. The familiar buildings seemed to press in on him, a predatory undertone that promised to chew him up and spit him out if he let his guard down even for a moment. He couldn't wait until this whole fiasco was finally over. All he could do now was hope that he came out on top.

* * *

 **Oops, did I just set a bombing on Star Wars day?**

 **Sooooo, I'm way out of my depth again. I have no clue how a UN hearing would go and I mostly just BSed my way through it. I've modeled this somewhat off of the televised confirmation hearings for SCOTUS, congressional hearings, and what I could find through some google searches. But I also really hate legal dramas, so I didn't research this as much as other parts of my story. And then I went and wrote 5500 words of legal drama. Because I hate myself.**

 **Tony's speech was really the backbone of this chapter and the inspiration hit me in the middle of yelling at people over email to give me their receipts. So I took an unduly long bathroom break and typed it all up on my phone. Unfortunately, my boss now thinks I'm horribly constipated and keeps suggesting various home remedies for it. This is the pain I go through for you, dear readers.**

 **Just a quick side note: I was a bit indulgent in some of the names for this chapter. For those who haven't guessed already, Radka Zelenkova is the feminine version of the Czech name Radek Zelenka. When I looked up Sokovia and saw that it shared a border with the Czech Republic, I couldn't help but throw a Stargate reference into the mix.**

 **Chapter title: This is from the same poem and stanza as Chapter 15's title, "In Flanders Field" by John McCrae. Since it's Tony's big stand, I wanted to continue the same theme**


End file.
